


abrogation

by TheOnlyHuman



Series: arkhos [4]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adopted Children, Adoptive Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Beaches, Broken Bones, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Eret Needs A Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Eret-centric, Gen, Gun Violence, Holidays, Hurt Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Implied/Referenced Torture, Mafia AU, Major Character Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Private Jet, Protective Eret (Video Blogging RPF), They/Them pronouns for Eret, Tired Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Tubbo loves bees, Twins Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, did i make sparklez an exUSAF pilot?, in that eret is mob boss, my baby Eret I'm so sorry sobs, oof, sunshine and kidnapping, the checkhovs gun has been deployed hope youre ready for it, we goin to cuba bois, yes i did
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28224225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOnlyHuman/pseuds/TheOnlyHuman
Summary: A trip to Cuba had been a long time coming.Or,Eret goes to check up on Arkhos' Cuban subset and brings Watson family and co. What's meant to be a peaceful three day trip turns into a rollercoaster straight from hell.But, really, what did they expect with Tommy there?mafia au :)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Clay | Dream & Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Eret & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Eret & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: arkhos [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029768
Comments: 247
Kudos: 757





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I HOPE YOU GUYS ARE AS EXCITED FOR THIS AS I AM!!
> 
> cw/ violence will be in this because mafa au, child neglect hinted at, and more stuff that youll see pop up in tags. characters will be added to as story progresses

The scent of death filled the air, thick in the ash that blew up into the sky with every fresh gust of wind. This death was pungent; burnt metal and plastic, a blight added to the smog of London's outskirts.

Eret stared at the ruins of the warehouse sat on the cusp of London's sub-urban fringe. People bustled around them, fire fighters calming down from their lengthy call-out. Phil was off to their left palming money out to the fire department supervisor with Dream close to Eret's right, hands hovering by his sides. The man was ansty, hood strings pulled tight after having woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.

The site they'd been called to in the early hours was an old warehouse, one their parents had owned. Situated on the cusp of London, it was cheaper than almost everything inside of the capital but still expensive. It was one of few locations they'd recovered from _the man's_ dirty grasp. A location that was now burnt to cinders.

Thankfully, before the arson there had been no one inside. It was a stock warehouse from day to day, and thus was kept in order by an idle skeleton crew and no more.

Wind gushed around the wreckage. Eret watched the charred remains of shelving units and panneled walls stir in the gales and lift up into the atmosphere. They flew in a foreboding, swirling march, twirling and spinning like a flock of crows before the wind further scattered them.

_Guess we'll have to tick this location off the list,_ they thought blithely and turned to Phil as he approached them. "Well?"

"Five in the morning they got a call, some old lady a few kilometres west reported bright lights. Said fireworks but the crew got out here to a half-burnt warehouse." Phil reported, his long green coat lapels flicking in the wind as his eyes washed over the crowd of fire fighters replacing their gear in their trucks. There were two red monstrosities perched around the gravel drive; two looming beasts that were safely held within Arkhos' payroll. "All stock's lost with no human casualties. Two-fifty's been paid to the fire department. News is on the down-low and there's been no reporters so far."

"Good. We'll send Puffy out to the woman," they hummed. "Make sure she's the little old lady we like to hear about in good deeds."

Cara Puffy had come to them with the spoken CV of _"I can speak"_ and had been remodeled for Eret's own purposes into _"I can ask the right questions"._ She was a smart girl, capable of more than she gave herself credit for and Eret hoped to cultivate that self-esteem in her.

She was a people-person. Almost empathetic, Puffy knew how people would respond before they did themselves. And she used this to her advantage, saving harder to swallow questions for when people got riled up. Eret had taken her with them on the Unus Annus meetings and had been impressed by her cavalier attitude and well-timed rhetorics.

They trusted her and she was one of the best for the job.

"You sure that's necessary, boss?" Phil queried politely, hands shoved into his pockets against the chilly onslaught of wind. His green and white striped bucket hat prevailed, remaining on his head despite the odds. "The files on the skele crew say a few were smokers. I'm sure it wouldn't be hard to root out the schedules and question a few guys."

"Then I'll set Puffy on them as well," they said, effectively cutting down Phil's argument. The mid-day sun hovered over them and the sight of its rays reminded Eret of warmer weather. On that line of thought, it was colder than usual for it to be coming up to Halloween. "Are we done here?"

"Seems so, boss," Phil nodded. Dream was silent but they hadn't expected a response from him anyway.

"Patton," they summoned. The fire department supervisor perked up, bald head shining in the sunshine and strode over to them, quickly joining their gathering of three.

"Ma'am," he bounced in place, smiling despite the tired droop to his shoulders. Eret liked him, they really did - Jason Patton was quirky and kind, with a devilish sense of humour that really came out when he made his one-liners. Although, their liking of him did nothing to disguise the fact the man had a small issue on knowing when to call them in on a situation.

Like, for instance, _now._ Eret could've been in bed, pretending to sleep, instead of standing half-frozen in a field at the ripe hour of 8 AM. It wouldn't have mattered, had the warehouse been a flagged one for carrying important goods, but the fire dept were privy to some files such as that and this warehouse was certainly not one of the important ones.

They offered a curled smile. "Don't call me out for something as simple as this ever again. Not unless my name's going on a paper for the wrong reason, got it?"

Patton stiffened, sunny expression falling to a stiff mix of fear and anxiety. "Y- Yes, ma'am. I understand. My sincere apologies, ma'am."

"Don't worry about it," they waved off, smiling softly to ease the man. Patton deflated, relieved, and offered a bright smile in return before flouncing off to check up on his men's packing abilities.

"When are the kids off for Halloween, Phil?" Eret asked as they walked over to the car. Dream took the backseat silently, leaving Eret to claim the passenger seat as Phil elected himself as driver.

"A few days from now, for two weeks, boss. You thinking about that trip?" The blond grinned.

"No. Just wondering," they yawned. "I'd appreciate it if you could find out the exact dates and text me before tonight."

"No problem, boss."

The kids were off for eight days for the autumn break. Including the two weekends, it was twelve days. From the twenty-first of October to the first of November, they were free from school, which meant Eret could plot out a trip with at least a week's leeway.

A trip to Cuba had been a long time coming.

For months, the sub-sect over there had been patchy and sparse with debriefs and check-ins. At first, Eret hadn't worried too much, because (ex) Dr Steffen Mössner was in charge. Mössner, they trusted, because he was reliable and always had good reasons for all his actions.

At first, the perceived almost radio silence was taken as a job gone deep - something spiralling that had taken more concentration to deal with than wanted. Dream had made a noise at seeing the first missed status report but Eret had been in a good mood that night and they'd let it slide. Because Mössner was good. He was experienced, had been in the gang business for upwards of fifteen years amd he knew his stuff. They trusted him.

A month later, they received word Mössner was dead. He'd been dead for three months, replaced by young, spritely Elaina. (That was all they had on her - a name and nothing else but a few adjectives used to describe her on the roster Mössner had submitted a month before radio silence.)

Elaina was a new face on the scene. Eret did not know her; not like they had Mössner. Thus, worried she was new and simply couldn't figure out how to correctly correspond with the mainstream sect, they asked for George to initiate a learning pack.

Inside the pack was a greeting, instructions on how to report to Arkhos' HQ and a generalized indoctrination. There had been no response. There were no following reports.

By now, as of when they were sitting in their bed, blankets pooled around them, laptop warm in their lap, it had been nearly five months since any form of correspondence with the Cuban subset. Eret was worried something had went wrong whilst simultaneously being annoyed that one of their most reliable men had died and left an entire section crumbling.

_Maybe I should've paid him more,_ _he was obviously good at his job._ Eret mulled, tapping away at the encripted files they needed. Cuba wasn't somewhere they visited often - in fact, after Spain and the man they quite disliked warmer countries with stifling humidities, and so their visits out of the UK were sparse. Due to their lack of knowledge on the place, they'd resorted to clicking through the files on the Cuban subset before they booked any hotels.

The main Cuba branch of Arkhos was situated more centralised to the island. The Cuban HQ was on the outskirts of San Cristóbal, Pinar del Río, while there were a few smaller groupings along Havana and Artemisa. According to David's old files, most of Cuba was accessible through the A4 and the autopistas that ran through San Cristóbal, hence why the man had picked the location.

Luckily, there was an airport in San Cristóbal. This meant all Eret had to do was book a fancy hotel with a pool within about a mile range and pop their head of transport, Skeppy, a text so that he could organise for their private jet to land on the airport's runway.

They grabbed their steaming mug of coffee from their bedside table and blew on it as they scrolled through possible hotels to stay in. It was obvious they were taking the entire Waston family with them, Dream included, but the main question was if Tubbo wished to come along as well.

Well, they'd book a room for Tommy and Tubbo that Tommy could have to himself if the other darling didn't want to come.

Satisfied at the five star hotel they'd decided on, Eret fired off a text to Phil: _Have bags packed for three day trip, 23rd to 26th Oct. Make Tommy ask Tubbo if he wants to come too xx_

Five minutes later, the reply _will do! ;)_ came through.

"Psst, Tubbo," Tommy whispered, leaning obnoxiously over his desk as he fought for the boy's attention. They were in english, the new teacher off on a spiral about Greek gods that Technoblade would've loved to hear. "Tub-"

"What?" Tubbo mouthed, turning around from his seat in front of him. Tommy grinned at him, thankful Miss Alyssa (what sort of teacher asked kids to call them by their first name?) was almost deaf to them whispering. It was funny to see other kids whispering and to have her hammer down on them with her Disappointed Voice and then have her completely ignore him and Tubbo plotting anarchy in the middle of the room.

With his friend's attention now on him, Tommy pulled the folded paper Phil had given him before he'd left for a later work shift. It had been his dad's day off, a complementary from Eret, but something had come up and he'd been forced out of bed anyway.

He'd taken the initiative to read the note before folding it up into a paper plane to throw at Tubbo. It was a holiday invite, from Eret. They wanted Tubbo to come with Tommy and the others. They were going to Cuba.

Tommy had never been anywhere outside of the UK. Phil was always too busy to take them anywhere. He supposed this was different, because the boss was taking them on a three day trip.

The plane shot towards Tubbo, arcing just before it got to him. Tommy watched with wide eyes, prepared to need to get up and walk down the staged arena to grab the plane that would inevitably collapse in front of the teacher, but then it curled again, completing a loop-de-loop and sailed down into Tubbo's lap.

Heart thumping, Tommy tuned out Miss Alyssa's ramblings, attention solely on Tubbo as the boy opened the plane up. It took his bee-loving friend a moment to read the couple of words before his shoulders jumped.

Tubbo turned, beaming a brilliant smile. He nodded frantically, overjoyed. Tommy grinned back, throwing him a thumbs up.

He couldn't wait to explore Cuba with Tubbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentioned youtubers:
> 
> • Jason Patton is runner of yt channel Fire Department Chronicles. I looked him up on a whim whilst trying to find a fire fighter ytber and he is seriously funny. go give him a watch :)
> 
> • Steffen Mössner is docm77 (i gave him Dr as a reference to this). hes a hermitcrafter :) sry hes dead in this
> 
> • Cara, CaptainPuffy on twitch, is also on the smp so i thought i'd add her in xD
> 
> • elaina (ElainaExe on twitch) is one of Eret's irl friends, a streamer from california.
> 
> • Alyssa (the english teacher) is on the smp but im not sure if she streams/yt or anything.. ive made her a few years older in this so that she can be a teacher - ahem, 'teacher' :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Personally, Dream had never seen the appeal of kids._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw/cw// kind of panic attack at start (chara just stressed boi, okie), theres pain killers being taken, bug mention, techno vapes for stress relief, death and violence and sporadic mentions of Spain - referencing 'enterprising' book and first chapter.

Wilbur floundered, attention stuck between his phone playing internet sensation PewDiePie's live stream and the empty bag that needed packed sitting at the foot of his bed. The youtuber was playing Fortnite, screaming in Swedish when he died. He said something funny that Wilbur chuckled at as he folded a pair of shorts and tucked them into the space he'd mentally reserved for trousers before pulling open his drawers unit to grab spare boxers.

Apparently, Phil had nagged the boss that they needed a holiday and Eret's response was to bring the whole Watson family with them. Wilbur appreciated the sentiment, except for the fact that he barely had any clothes suitable for the 80% humidity land of Cuba. Plus, he couldn't begin to even fathom why Eret wanted the gremlin child brought along too.

A loud bang echoed through the shitty house's thin walls. Tommy screeched something demonic sounding as the tinny sound of Tubbo's laughter came through. They were probably face timing. The two were only allowed to do it so often, Tubbo's foster parents not letting the kid do it whilst they were in the house or when he had homework to do.

He thought of that little boy in a big house all by himself and frowned, shoving his bundled socks into the bag with more force than necessary.

Tommy and Tubbo had been off school already since wednesday - the twenty-first - and not once had Tubbo been round. According to the brunet, his parents worked long hours as esteemed neurosurgeons. Wilbur knew that meant they weren't around much and so when they were off they would want to be with Tubbo but at the same time, was it alright to leave the kid alone for most of the day? Not even allowing him to go over to friends' houses was -

Dare he say, _cruel?_

"Wil," Techno grunted from behind him. He turned to find his twin looming in the doorway, the normally creaky floorboards not even groaning a warning. Funny that; they groaned up a storm whenever Wilbur so much as breathed in their direction. His brother ducked under the doorway and stepped into his room.

(Wilbur hated this house. He hated how small it was, how much money Phil had paid for something so terrible. He hated how they'd been forced to move to London on the boss' whim. Wilbur had liked Brighton; it was softer than cold, harsh London.)

His brother spoke. "You seen my vape?"

"No," he answered, bending down to pick a shirt off the ground. It had been lying there for a day and the bubble of woodlice under the fabric was an unpleasant surprise. Wilbur made an ungodly noise as Techno stepped over and stomped on the bugs, squishing them with his heavy duty boots. The pilfered shirt found itself flung against the opposite wall, landing in a lump once more.

"I hate this house," he muttered, not even caring as Technoblade grabbed the shirt to wipe the bug guts off his sole. Wilbur watched his brother until something inside him rebelled and he had to swallow a gag. He looked away, breathing deeply through his nose. Instead, he squinted at his bag, cataloguing what he needed.

"So do I," Techno mumbled, shirt dropped to the floor. His hand rested on Wilbur's shoulder, a warm soothing weight as he peered into the splayed open bag. "You'll need shirts too, Wil."

"I know," he breathed, PewDiePie screaming in the silence between them. A smirk broke Techno's frown. "No," he said, recognising that face. "Shut up. Go find your vape!"

"Alright, _Bro Army,"_ he snickered.

"Fuck off!"

Technoblade did his odd-breathy laugh and left Wilbur to pack. Now alone, he walked over to his wardrobe and pulled out a few t-shirts to shove into his suitcase. Seeing as they were leaving just before dinner to get food before the private jet ride (which, _what the fuck, they were going to ride in a private jet!)_ , he grabbed his toiletries and double checked he had all he needed before throwing them to the mix.

"I DON'T HAVE IT!" Tommy yelled, the sound spearing through Wilbur's poor head. The murmur of Technoblade speaking wormed through the walls, the tin-thump of Tubbo joining. Tommy was still shouting, in that playful manner of his, but it was wreaking havoc on Wilbur's mental health.

Sucking in a breath, he blindly grabbed for his phone and blacked it out in the process. Head thumping to the base of Tommy's voice, he abandoned his bag and thundered down the stairs, head low to avoid an unwanted concussion. Would he be allowed to fly with a concussion?

Probably. It was the boss' private jet.

The kitchen was small, and shit, and he hated it almost more than he hated London and the stairs sitting on a slope that meant his back hurt every time he got off them. He hated London, hated London, hated London, London, London, London-

There was a cupboard above the sink. Wilbur opened it, the plastic door playing a risky game inches from his face. A small blue plastic stack-box sat in the corner, piled high with rectangular cardboard cuboids of pills and plastic cylinders of liquid medicine, with an array of tastes from strawberries to old shoes.

His hand snaked out, grabbing the grey and red box of ibuprofen. It was a new packet, meaning he had to tear open the cardboard flaps and tug the long paper slip that was the instructions for use out of the way. There were two slips of white foil-topped plastic holders, six pills in each. He popped out four and downed them in twos alongside a random glass of orange juice that was already sitting on the counter. It was too strong, harsh on his throat with too much concentrate in it - Tommy's.

A noise behind him jerked his attention out of its reverie. Wilbur turned to find Techno standing in the middle of the lounge-area, victorious as he puffed at his vape. His brother was silent, something Wilbur was thankful for as he repackaged the ibuprofen and pushed the cupboard door closed.

"Don't forget your phone charger," Techno said, gruntled with his recovery of the mechanisied candy floss flavoured nicotine tube. He blew a ring of fake smoke, the cloud puffing up around his nose to imitate a bull gearing up for a charge. It made him look like the intimidating warrior he liked to model his basement-session character after.

"Don't forget your Sun Tzu books," he said in turn.

"Already packed all seven," was the response. Wilbur was sure he had. Technoblade liked to read when he couldn't sleep. He couldn't sleep much.

"You think the airport'll let you keep your vape? I know there's rules for some places that say you're not allowed them."

"I'll mention it to the boss," Techno shrugged. "If I'm not allowed it over there and they can't do anything, I'll use my nicotine patches."

Wilbur nodded, leaning against the counter. The kitchenette and lounge-area room was dull and crampt. He and Techno were barely six feet apart despite being in completely different sections of the house. No way in hell was this place worth what Phil had paid for it.

"Wilbur," Techno's hand was back on his shoulder. "You packed?"

"Yeah," he said, feeling distant. Phil was due inside in a few minutes, having ventured outside to make sure the security system was online before they left. Last thing they wanted was to come back to a house broken into.

"'Kay," Technoblade murmured and tugged him over to the small but soft couch. Wilbur sat down at the nudged prompting and leaned into Techno's side when his brother settled down beside him. A hand ran through his hair, his brother's deep voice a reassuring sound in his ear, the cadence echoing through his chest. "Nap. I'll wake you in ten."

"Mmhm," he mumbled back and closed his eyes.

His phone buzzed with the confirmation from Skeppy that the private jet was prepared. Dream let his eyes flick over the wording, assuring himself that the lack of the man's nervous tick words (such as _like, sure_ and _definitely)_ was a positive thing. Skeppy was known to be a bit obtuse occasionally, usually completely on purpose.

"Jet's ready," he said to his boss. "Take off's set for fifty minutes time."

"Good," Eret said, voice weak to show how little attention they were paying to him. Their gaze was on their phone, flicking through reddit.

Normally, Dream would've been annoyed (that was a lie, he'd stopped getting annoyed at Eret very quickly after he'd found them in Spain), but he knew how sleep deprived Eret was. They were scatterbrained, as BadBoyHalo would've put it, and had very nearly forgotten to take their ADHD meds this morning were it not for his prompting.

They were excited, he knew. They hadn't been overseas in a long while, although it wasn't that which had had them bouncing around at 4 AM last night. It was more a matter of _"Tommy and Tubbo are coming!"_

Eret had never attached to kids emotionally in the five years Dream knew them. They'd been distant for a long time, even to Dream at the start, although he put that mostly down to trauma. They had never warmed up to someone as quick as he did Tommy- not just the blond gremlin, though. They'd taken a shine to Tubbo quicker than anyone had _blinked._

What Dream was trying to say was that he found it odd for his boss to suddenly take a liking to two kids. Tommy was already adopted by Phil - a process fast-tracked a year back by Eret's influence - and Tubbo was living with a foster family.

They'd muttered about that, recently. Always there was a topic of dislike for them; within their business there had to be or else the cards weren't being played right. For the past week, Eret had been complaining about the stupidity of foster families - how it was despicable for some families to wheedle through foster kids like they were trying on coats.

It didn't take a genius to know Eret was only complaining about one family in particular. The Gallings - married, both neurosurgeons, snide, wealthy but snippy with vexatious spending - were the current foster parents of Tubbo and seemed to hold some sort of petty glee in holding onto a child one of the world's most powerful mafia bosses had offered to pay over a hundred thousand British Sterling for.

_"It's not trafficking,"_ they'd huffed one night, furious after Mr Galling had laughed at them down the phone and hung up on them like he didn't care who Eret was. Dream had sat at the foot of their bed, watching in case he had to make a dive to save the fourth iphone of the month. _"It's not, far from it! It's just- How dare Galling accuse me of such filth? I just want Tubbo to be happy. He's obviously not! The boy flinches when addressed, for god's sake."_

_Maybe you should let Tubbo decide if he wants you to adopt him,_ a hushed part of him had wanted to whisper, the idea springing forth deep down in the well of thoughts he could never say aloud. Dream had remained silent, because when Eret was irritated enough to pace they didn't want to be talked to, and at the end of the night he'd managed to avoid taking a lunge to save another phone.

(Eret had a bad habit of throwing them in their moods. If too excited, iphones slipped out of their hands. If too annoyed, iphones crashed into walls and shattered to bits.

It was a damn good thing they made up 90% of Apple's investment or else half their fortune would be gone on buying the damn things.)

Personally, Dream had never seen the appeal of kids. Babies cried too much, toddlers were too stressful to deal with and he dealt with enough of adult ones in the workplace as it was. He'd had a kid sister once, and she'd been an amazing little girl before her murder, but nothing about her big blue eyes or bright toothy smile had ever made him want to have kids, or even adopt.

Hesitant to say there was a type behind those who wished for children, Dream watched Eret and silently remarked there were no stereotypes to push them into. They really were a one of a kind. He'd been lucky to find them when he did. A few months later and Finch (whose name was not to be spoken around Eret at any cost) could've grown bored of them and sold them into one of his huge trafficking rings. If that had've happened he never would've found them.

The driver held up a hand. Dream nodded, meeting the man's eyes in the rearview mirror. He nudged Eret with his shoulder, heart jumping as they flinched, fumbling their phone for a second.

"We here?" They asked, pausing to yawn as they shoved their phone into one pocket of many amongst their skirt. They'd be sleeping on the plane, for sure. Dream silently noted that he had to make sure they used one of those neck pillows or else they'd hurt their neck.

The car had pulled up at a tall block of fancy overpriced tenements. They were the restored ones that weren't flats anymore and were now large homes for the well-to do portion of London's business and medical districts. Doctors and surgeons and accountants and solictiors lived here, lawers and judges a block over, policemen and other goverment-funded jobs five blocks over.

These buildings cost over three hundred thousand to rent out a year, nevermind buy, and to live in one was somewhat of a workplace boast. Dream couldn't understand why - he'd seen nicer buildings in Detroit.

"Out we go," he declared after having covertly scanned the windows and rooftops for any snipers or suspicious looking things. Dream took his job seriously, even if some naïve men laughed at his apparent paranoia. There'd been a recommendation once; an old SEAL looking for a job. Eret had taken her on as a bodyguard and later that week she'd been careless and lost her head to an avoidable sniper.

There was a saying Dream and Technoblade both fully believed in: _just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you._

Because him thinking like that had saved his own and Eret's ass more than once. If asked, Technoblade would begin reciting Sun Tzu quotes on how to be more prepared than the enemy but Dream knew the ideology was about the same.

He stepped out first, the wind breezing around his legs. When he'd moved up to London he hadn't expected for its fall to be quite as chilly. Eret hadn't either and they'd both been forced to order in warmer clothes very quickly.

It was all very quick, from Eret getting out of the car to them walking up the concrete steps adorned by a metal, painted black ornate railing and ringing the doorbell. Dream stood back, on the pavement, gaze spinning over the buildings and his peripheral of the road with a compulsion too well known.

Something bad was going to happen. He just knew it. Although, whether it was now or on this trip was yet to be known and he was antsy standing out in the open.

"Hello, sweetheart," Eret chimed as the door opened and Tubbo appeared, an old backpack clutched in his grasp. The boy looked happy to see them. "All packed?"

"Hello, Eret, Dream," the kid gave a meek wave. Dream nodded back as Eret cooed over the brown bodywarmer Tubbo had pinned a bee badge to. "I've got enough for three days, is that good?"

"Of course," his boss nodded, smiling. "Summer stuff, I hope? It's warm out there."

"Uh, yeah," Tubbo shrugged. "I don't have that many pairs of shorts but I found a few."

"We'll buy you some more out there if you need them, sweetie," assured Eret, letting Tubbo lock the door behind him with a key he shoved into one of his zip-up pockets, the kid stuttering over Eret's words as he did so. When the door was locked and didn't budge even the the handle was rattled, Eret gestured for Tubbo to follow and the boy did, flocking after their long skirt like a sheep to a shepherd.

"All ready to meet Tommy at the airport?" They asked as they slid into the car, buckling up.

"Uh-huh," Tubbo nodded, shy as he settled in the middle seat between Dream and Eret. His backpack rested at his feet, his fingers tight on its coarse fabric handle.

Dream shut the car door as softly as possible but the jerk that moved Tubbo still rocked through him. He nodded to the driver and the car slowly eased out onto the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up everybody, this one's gonna be a long one :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Welcome aboard Anarka, the prettiest jet this side of Europe."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS! :D

Eret thought everything was going well.

They'd quickly met up with Phil and company in the airport waiting area and had breezed through a complimentary staff-only tour that the Head Supervisor came out to personally give them. The man kept dropping hints about new runways and expansions and Eret hoped Phil had been listening because they sure as hell hadn't been. (Airport investments were fun. They always got more money out of them than predicted.)

After some deliberation on available takeouts, on which nearly everyone in the group wanted something different from somewhere different, Dominoes and McDonalds was settled on and they'd effectively killed twenty-five minutes of their time before needing to abandon the food court. Phil had mentioned being glad the Head Supervisor left them before that point, as it surely would've been awkward having the man standing around watching Tommy and Techno argue over gurkens.

All in all, the visit to the airport was largely uneventful. It was noisier than Eret remembered, but then with all the people around the place it was no surprise it was louder than what they were used to with less than half the number of people.

Technoblade sent the metal detector off with a blade in his boot and held the line up for a few minutes as Eret was forced to pull out their Head Supervisor stamped sheets and a bundle of cash to ensure the security let them pass. They didn't understand what was so hard to understand about only passing through. The sheets meant they didn't even have to use the metal detectors!

Not to mention, they tried to take the poor man's vape as well. Eret had put on their best frown and grabbed their phone to call the Head Supervisor and then they'd been let through. Technoblade's vape was safe, switchblade included, and he looked all the happier for it.

Personally, Eret just wanted to sleep. They'd come to the conclusion that maybe staying up so late the night before hadn't been the best idea.

_Whatever, we're halfway there,_ they thought as the group emerged onto the tarmac. Tommy and Tubbo were bouncing about a bit ahead of them, Dream close to their right side, Technoblade to their left. Wilbur and Phil were at the back of the group, talking over the rules of poker.

Their shiny black private jet sat proudly on her lonesome, the walkway down and ready. Captain Jordan Sparklez stood prepared by the bottom metal railed steps.

Sparklez was an ex-USAF pilot. One of the best, he'd been dishonourably discharged after an incident with a bomb, a forklift and thirteen crates of beer. Eret had found him moping around the underground, clinging to contracts for supply runs, and had promptly bought a private jet for the man to fly around their operatives in.

The air force was missing out on a wasted opportunity. Sparklez had an even temper, was capable of negotiating with Sapnap to not flick his lighter on a twelve hour flight and didn't seem to need sleep. He was also very dependable and capable of adapting to the situations presented.

"Welcome aboard Anarka, the prettiest jet this side of Europe." He grinned to the kids, offering the main group a wave as he introduced himself to the kids. Eret gave a discreet wave, allowing the man to lead the boys up the stairs and settle them in.

The jet _was_ pretty; the product of half a million dollars well spent. Even if she wasn't worth that, Anarka had seen enough airtime that her cost was well paid off. The amount of money she'd inadvertently saved Arkhos by being plain reliable (like her Captain) was immense. She hadn't broken down once in her three year tenure.

Not that money was an issue. Eret would be lying if they said it was.

Moving on, the jet (plane?) really was a nice sight. Inside, the soft plush carpeted aisle speared the whole way down the length, joining the Captain's cockpit to the numerous seats and the bathroom and small kitchen at the back. There was a recurring theme of black, white and red, the black carpet a striking parallel against the white plush seats and the splashes of red in objects and the tables.

The seats were set up so that they were booth-like, with a total of four booths fitted with plush reclining leather chairs, cupholders and padded backs. Each booth (laid out much like train boothes, but more comfortable and more spacious) fit four seats, the two chairs on either side split by an extending table in the centre of them. The table's height could be toggled from coffee table to the natural dining table chest height. Each table had implanted charging sockets that could be accessed if the waterproof caps were lifted.

Though, the seating area only took up so much space. This meant there was an odd area between the cockpit and the booths. It had been filled by a low couch, bolted down, and a mini bar that came with alcoholic beverages that couldn't be found in the small kitchen. It wasn't used much, people preferring the luxury seats over sliding down a leather couch.

Finally, there was a storage room, back with the kitchen and the bathroom in the far end of the jet. It was there, on shelves with straps, they placed their bags.

"General rules apply here, no smoking, no fire-starting and no screaming." Sparklez announced as the group began to file in, grinning when Tommy scowled as if offended. "If your seatbelts go slack it's because we're at the altitude where you can take them off. The flight's gonna be around twelve hours long so if you have any questions ask them while I'm here."

"Vaping allowed?" Technoblade piped up.

Sparklez shrugged, "I'm not the one dealing with it. I also can't enforce any of the rules if the boss agrees with the ongoings."

The boys had lost interest, already having flounced off to pick a booth. The 'booths' weren't separated by anything other than the fact they were back to back, two on each side of the plane. Tommy seemed to notice this as he climbed over his seat and turned to grin at a glowering Wilbur.

"Vape all you want," they decreed, abandoning the huddle to collapse in the booth behind the boys. Dream followed them, demanding the inner seat (which they gave up because they were soft) to the outrage of Tommy.

"Why'd you not sit with us, Eret?" Tommy demanded, hanging over the seats above them. Eret looked up to him, seeing the boy's upside down frown and smirked.

"Some of us want to sleep, Tommy," they nullified, chuckling when the kid protested in shock. "I'll sit with you both on the return trip, don't you worry."

"Fine, sleep all you want! But I'll remember that," the blond huffed before dropping back into his seat and starting an obnoxiously loud conversation with Tubbo about chocolate and which variant was better.

A dreary looking Wilbur dropped into their booth, opposite Dream, and Phil smiled at them as he settled opposite Eret, beside his middle child. That left Technoblade either on his own or to pick a booth with the kids. He had the choice of two other empty booths and chose the one on the opposite side of the aisle to theirs, smirking at Tommy's yelled protests.

Eret watched as the man sat, pulling his long pink hair out to flow around him. He turned to their watching eyes and nodded at them, keeping the table low so he could kick his legs up onto the opposite chairs. He pulled his vape out of his pocket and sucked at it, blowing an assortment of shapes once he'd buckled himself in.

"Buckle up," Sparklez' voice came over the speaker. "We'll now be taking off. You know the gig, chew your sweets, no standing, yada yada."

Dream handed them a starburst to chew at as he tossed a few behind himself for the boys. The concept of popping ears due to altitude had only been explained to Tubbo ten minutes prior, something Eret found interesting for someone to not know. Technoblade had pulled a few cool but gruesome facts out and nearly scared the poor boy out of the trip all together.

Eyes slipping shut, Eret sagged against the back of their seat and let their hands settle on the fluffy wool blanket Dream flapped over them. It was an old comfort item, a Winnie the Pooh, yellow coloured thing that had been the tether between them and the world after the incident in Spain where Dream had shown up. It was this blanket that they'd gripped on the plane home, and it was this blanket they presently pulled up around themself and nestled down into.

They chewed their sweet as the jet took off, listening to the idle chatter around them. Wilbur and Technoblade were silent, the former having pushed his earpods in whilst the latter puffed clouds. Phil and Dream were talking about some new development project to oversee and Tommy and Tubbo's topics had quickly switched from chocolate to best sweets to best things to do on holiday, which was essentially Tommy explaining all one could do on holiday to Tubbo.

"There's sometimes amusement rides and markets but usually there's cool arcades and long beaches," Tommy was saying.

"I can't wait to see the beaches!" Tubbo replied.

Their world shuddered to a halt. Tubbo wanted to see beaches? San Cristóbal was nowhere near any beaches. It was as mainland as it got in Cuba. The most water it seen was rain and the outdoor pools.

"I've never been to one before."

Eret felt faint. Confident in their phone's ability to not cause a crash by interfering with any plane gadgets, they fumbled for the device under their blanket, pulling it free of their skirt to fire off a rapid round of texts to Fundy. Fundy was good at research, was adept at picking out prime locations so it was he whom they attacked with a barrage of messages.

_You want a beach?_ Pinged the man.

_Yes. Whats the best beach resort in cuba quick tell me i need to know,_ they sent in response.

A few moments passed, a time where Eret's heart hammered and Dream looked ready to contemplate if he should ask if they needed a bottle of water. The boys were still chattering. Tubbo had never been to a beach.

_Mélia Resort in Varadero is a five star resort,_ came Fundy's slow reply. _Close to the beach, family friendly. Three hours drive from San Cristóbal. There's an airport in Varadero, three minutes bus ride from resort._

_Beach good?_ They short circuited.

_Yes._ Fundy texted.

_Good._

Eret stood in a flurry, heads around them turning at the sudden movement as they dropped their blanket onto their seat. Phil looked ready to ask if something was wrong in his usual dad manner but they waved him off, feeling all floaty now they'd found a suitable beach.

They stepped out of the booth and strode up the aisle, the carpet feeling as if it stretched for years under their feet as they passed the chattering boys and then the leather couch. Stepping behind the curtain that separated the pilot's box from the rest of the craft, Eret knocked on the door once before barging in.

"Captain Sparklez," they greeted easily, the sight of luscious white clouds on the backdrop of a smooth blue sky a calming sight. "I was wondering if we could make a few adjustments to our course?"

Well aware of what they were like, Sparklez breathed a sigh. "Of course, boss. What sort of adjustments?"

They fired off a text to Skeppy and got a harried _lemme check_ in return. Eret blinked down at the answer and decided they'd deal with the blow over if Skeppy didn't get access.

"We're landing in Varadero now," they declared, watching as the Captain pushed a few buttons on his GPS and found the airport. It binged green, the connection with Arkhos' system meaning that Skeppy had gotten confirmation for their landing. Sure enough an _all green_ text came through on their phone a second later.

_That was quick,_ they thought. "Is that alright?"

"No problemo, boss," Sparklez grinned. "Flight's now around nine hours. Sounding good, eh?"

"Ineed. Thank you," they said and turned to leave, already tapping out a reservation for the resort.

"It's my pleasure," called the man.

"Landing in thirty minutes," the Captain's voice announced through the speaker.

Tommy lifted his head from atop Tubbo's and tugged at his phone. It sat on the table, charging, and it took a long second to load up the time on the lockscreen. _Huh, barely nine hours. Thought the trip was twelve-something._

He glanced over to his best friend and found him still dozing, head bent down into his chest, face relaxed. There was a peacefulness about Tubbo when he was alseep, Tommy reckoned. He looked happier, calmer too.

A peek out the windows at the side revealed a dark cloudy sky. It wasn't dark storm-wise, more night time-wise. Down below was the gloomy ocean, small orb-like sections glimmering from the red and green flashing lights on the jet's wings. Tommy looked out at the dark wings, the only thing alerting him that they were still there being those very lights.

Cuba ran on its own Cuban Standard Time, five hours behind Greenwich Mean Time. That meant, because they'd left the UK at around 5 PM GMT and the flight was (from what he'd counted) nine hours, it would be around 9 PM, CST. It was something like 2 AM back home in London.

Tommy thought that was fucking cool. They'd technically only lost a few hours because Cuba was still on the twenty-third of October, whilst the UK was now on the twenty-fourth.

He nudged Tubbo, startling back as the boy shot forward. Tubbo's hands rushed up and stopped his own impending collision with the table and pushed himself back into his chair. The brunet blinked at him and Tommy blinked right back.

"All good, Big T?" He asked, part concerned, part amused. Tubbo blinked twice more before rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and nodding.

"What's up?" Tubbo questioned.

"We're landing in half an hour," he said. "Thought you'd wanna know."

"Oh," said the boy. He offered a small smile. "Okay. Thanks, Tommy."

Reassured, he twisted in his seat and propped himself up on his knees to peer down at the other booth. To his far right, Techno looked up from his book and rolled his eyes, the motion clearly visible even with the cabin's dulled side lights. Trying to be as quiet as possible, Tommy stuck his tongue out and flung his hand out to tap Eret's shoulder.

Inches from his destination, Dream grabbed his wrist, stalling his progress. When Tommy turned to scowl at the man - who was still wearing a _mask! -_ he found himself pierced through by a cold glare.

"They're alseep, Tommy," the man hissed, voice quiet. Wilbur, who was looking significantly less pale than he had earlier, let his eyes flick up to give Tommy his 'Be Sensible' Stare (accompanied by an unimpressed eyebrow raise). Beside him, Phil flared up the Warning Look, which was a minute tilt of the head that looked creepier than normal in the dim lighting.

"We're landing soon," he whispered back, fully prepared to argue his point.

"In thirty minutes," Dream answered matter-of-factly, sounding peeved. The green-lover had been in a bad mood earlier at the airport too. Tommy had mostly ignored because he was having a good time but now it was just annoying.

"So?" He responded, tugging at his stolen limb. "Let go of me."

"Sit back down and I will," Dream bargained.

"Fine," Tommy huffed, slumping down into his seat and successfully reclaiming his hand. He sat there, on his knees for a moment, Tubbo scrolling through Instagram beside him.

_Green bitch,_ he thought and turned around to flop in his seat. He reached for his phone. Reddit was probably missing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know the book's gonna be big when ur on chapter 3 and still aren't in cuba lmao. next chapter, i promise x


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"There's rules to Cuba."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter my lovelies, just you wait for it. That's when things start happening :)
> 
> For now, we're in Cuba.

The airport was big and chaotic despite the late hour. People bustled about, speaking Spanish (which Phil had never really gotten the hang despite Technoblade's random muttering of phrases) and almost speed walking everywhere.

"There's rules to Cuba," Eret had said after the plane had landed. Dream had woken them up fifteen minutes after Tommy would've (which was ironic in that Tommy huffed about not being the one to wake them up). "Three main things: no talking about any politics, no mentioning America and definitely no accepting strange things strangers give you."

They'd looked to Tommy and Tubbo in particular as they spoke, starting a round of irritated spluttering from the blond. "There's more gangs in Cuba than most places, meaning we're not the only ones in control. I need you boys to not go anywhere we don't already know you're going. And please, if someone comes up to you to sell you drugs, for the love of god, do not accept."

That was a reference to that one time when they'd taken Jameskii with them on a business trip and the man had been talked into buying a bunch of watermelons. Said watermelons had been packed with drugs. There had been a leak through the rumour mill and the incident had resulted in Eret being forced to buy out the entirety of Cornwall's police department and news press. The melons had cost over two hundred british pounds; the coppers fees included had rounded it up to around three thousand.

But Cuba was much more dangerous than a small melon shop in Cornwall. The police were corrupt (and not all under Arkhos' thumb), the soliders that patrolled the streets even moreso. If anyone was arrested, they were fucked because there was no guarantee the boss could actually do anything; unlike back home, where one phone call got you out free.

"We've landed in Varadero, a tourist town. We'll be getting a quick bus ride down to our resort before we set up perimeter. Local time is around 9 PM. Any questions?"

At least being in a tourist town made Phil feel better. If only because there was less of a crime presence (outside of the small-time drug dealers that stood in alleyways).

Although, he wondered why it was Varadero they'd landed in and not San Cristóbal. Had something went wrong over there? How far was the journey from Varadero to San Cristóbal?

"No?" Eret hummed before anyone had a chance to speak. "Good. We're staying in the Mélia Resort, best behaviour."

"We're always on our best behaviour," Tommy snarked. Phil choked. "Right, Tubbo?"

"Uh-huh," agreed the kid, words rushing out in a flurry as he nodded hastily. Tubbo looked paler than normal in the dim lights of the cabin.

"Everyone, grab your bags," Dream announced, emerging from the storage room with both his and Eret's bags.

Seeing as it was a three day trip, Phil had packed light. His rucksack was slung over his shoulder, the extra space inside not taken up by his clothing but instead made up of his gun and the medical kit he'd shoved in at Bad's insistence. He hadn't set the metal detector off back in Heathrow because he hadn't been scanned by it, Technoblade's switchblade making all the ruckus and heartbreaking poor Eret.

Techno (and the rest of the adults - who all had at least one gun on their person) probably would've set off the alarm here in Vararero's airport, but there was a loophole in the system. The room where people queued for the detector line was one large room, split in half by a line of six stations. There were at least six security men in the room, littered around the edges. But the bathrooms were connected to both sides by two doors, the odd circular design working out in their favour. Though a group of seven people walking through the men's toilets was probably an odd sight, it got them past security effectively.

Phil thought that there was a huge issue if randoms like them could do that. Dream had actually needed a piss whilst they'd waited in line for the metal detectors and had returned a minute later with sparkling eyes. It was comical how well it had worked out.

Currently, they were worming their way through a surprisingly busy airport for it being 9 PM. Probably had something to do with the fact Varadero was a literal tourist attraction. It could probably, to some extent, be likened to a miniture London - another place that never slept.

"Have a nice stay!" A young lady in the airport uniform waved a young couple off. Phil really didn't miss travelling without Eret; with the boss around their money got them through checkpoints quicker than a bomb could blow up a block of flats. They stalled in the middle of the larger main room, near the doors, as Eret went ahead and got whatever bits and bobs they needed from the main desk.

Cuba was warm. The heat and humidity hit Phil like a van as the group exited the airport, filing into a dull grey bus. Eret gave the driver two twenty dollar notes and the man practically drooled.

"This is so cool," had become Tommy's repeated chant. Tubbo was sat beside him, practically buzzing like the bees he so adored.

"I hope you don't mind the lazy night tonight," Eret said to the two kids, taking a seat at the back of the bus with the group. Together, they'd taken up a three seater (Eret and the boys) and two other two seaters (Phil and Dream, Wil and Techno). The bus, at least a twenty-seater, was filled to at least a good three-quarters capacity.

"We can go down to the beach tomorrow, right?" Tubbo murmured, Phil very nearly not hearing over the hubbub of chatter from the other passengers. Techno and Wil had struck up a muttering session, both staring down at Wil's phone. Dream sat beside Phil, tense as a board and probably sweltering under his hoodie.

"Of course, sweetheart," Eret said fondly. They'd probably shoot themself if Tubbo so much as asked. Phil had never seen them this soft for anyone.

It was crampt, the little bus, but it chugged along at a good speed. He wasn't sure it was worth the four peso fee per person, considering how their bags had to rest on their laps, the seats were horrifically dusty and the inside of the bus smelt a bit like old fish and lemon air freshener. Phil wondered if those two twenties was the most money the bus driver had seen in a while.

Tourist attractions were meant to make money. Evidently, Cuba was doing something wrong.

Three minutes and forty-two seconds later, they pulled up at the final stop. Most of the people got off here, wandering off towards the star-shaped five floored building that was lit up like a piñata.

"Looks like Christmas came early," Dream joked between the two of them, both of them one of the last off the bus. Phil hitched his rucksack on his shoulder and set off after the main group. Tommy and Tubbo had run off, the blond dragging the brunet like a rag doll, but there was no surprise there.

"I likened it more to a piñata," he admitted. "But yeah, we're on the same gist."

The sun had set a few hours ago but it was still warm out. Off to the far right there was the distant glimmer of a long beach, the faint hum of waves crashing a soft tune.

Mélia Resort was centred around itself, the glass doors sliding open to reveal a recpetion bustling with life. A lounge singer was humming in spanish to a small crowd, mostly elderly, a few younger couples nursing beers on the outskirts. The reception desk sat off to the left, a large walkway of white tiles and walls. The place seemed very clear and clean, the fountain in the very middle of the place glistening with azure water.

Three elevators guarded the far right wall, the little parachute boxes rolling up and down on visible rails. The entire ground floor was open and spacious, a small bar sitting with a collection of people around it to one corner with a large gift shop in the other. The building warped up like a wind tunnel, the inside hollowed out to create a large ring that meant even the top floor could glance down to the ground floor. Shiny metal railings lined these balconies around the centre, sturdy glimmers of light from Phil's vantage. He felt bared open in such a position, the group walking through a spot that left them clear open to any attacks.

Dream and Techno twitched, both probably thinking the same thing, and moved to flank the group.

"We've reserved a Level room," Eret smiled to the teenage looking girl behind the reception desk, briskly waving her away as she made to get up and approach them. They smiled to soften the blow but still the girl slouched down, dejected.

Suddenly, Phil understood what type of place this was. A tourist attraction with no money because it had scared away all its customers. Everyone knew Cuban food wasn't the best but where one aspect failed, others needed to make up for it - be it in manners, views or entertainment.

The girl had no poker face. The view of a white tiled floor could've been lightened up with some carpet or something. The lounge singer was bad enough that tone-deaf Philza could even tell she wasn't in tune with her chosen hymn.

Eret made an odd noise, quickly directing the boys to the elevators and away from the almost glowing fountain. Dream's gaze had sharpened even more, if that was possible, and Technoblade now hurried Wilbur to let them both walk level with the boss.

"We're going to the top floor," they said to the pink haired man, voice hushed by the clamour of one of the singer's high notes. Phil strained his ears over the racket, glancing over to see some of the more elderly and more deaf listeners leaning towards the woman for a better listen.

"Alright," Technoblade said, nodding along. He slapped Tommy's hand away from the panel and hit the top floor button, smirking at the boy's huff.

"What'd you have to do that for?" Piped Tommy, glaring at Technoblade as he was jostled into the open elevator. Miraculously, their group of seven managed to squish in. They pile d around the small area, folded in like a wriggling centipede. 

"Stop running off," Techno grunted, lightly cuffing the boy's head. His blond locks bounced, Tommy rolling his eyes and turning away as much as he could. The glass walls reflected his pout.

"How about we watch a few movies before bed?" Eret suggested in the silence that had strangled the group when the lift started creaking as it climbed higher and higher. The views the glass walls offered was amazing, the large floors showcasing gyms and indoor swimming pools alongside rooms, but the near heart attack wasn't worth another ride for Phil.

Wilbur agreed. "There's an action film David watched that Netflix has. He said it's really good."

The fifth floor opened up to them as the doors peeled back. Phil breathed a sigh of relief at being back on somewhat stable land as the group spilled out onto the landing.

Dream went with Eret to get the room keys, leaving the rest of them to loiter. Tommy and Tubbo sped over to the shiny metal railings that surrounded the hollowed out inside of the building, the two using the opportunity to stare down at the fountain from a bird's eye view. At least, up here the screeches of the lounge singer were unheard.

Technoblade stood beside Phil, watching the interaction between the boss and the older looking male behind the desk. The guy looked a little snobbish, nose held high as he typed away at his computer. A wall of small box shelves sat behind him, each one holding a key that glinted in the weird oval-shaped lamps littering the walls.

Meanwhile, Wilbur was stood staring at his phone. Phil wondered how much charge was on the thing, especially since it seemed the man was complaining about how it had ran out all the time and seeing how he hadn't been off it once since they'd gotten off the plane. 

Dream shifted his stance, drawing Phil's attention. He glanced over in time to see Eret push a bundle of cash over the desk top and into the man's lap. The receptionist looked constipated for a moment, lips pressed tighter than his narrowed eyes. 

Phil realised why as soon as he saw the glint in Eret's hand. They tossed it up, the glint flickering and shining as it landed back in their hand smoothly. Eret was playing with a switchblade and the receptionist looked ready to cry.

"Great," Techno mused. "Who knew last minute transfers didn't always work out?"

"You know what's up there?" Phil tilted his head towards his eldest. "Last I'd heard we were going to land in San Cristóbal."

"I think it had to do with the talk they had with the Captain," Wil decided to add, stepping closer so the boys couldn't hear their conspiracies. "Maybe Skeppy was bullshitting about getting access to SC's airport."

"Maybe," Phil muttered, hands on his hips as he watched Eret pull out the headtilt. "God, some people are stupid."

His boys turned to watch the spectacle themselves. Dream seemed to have relaxed, body leaning against the tall desk, feet kicked out. Compared to Eret's head-tilt, slightly left leaning stance and the blade now dug into the wood of the desk, the ex-SEAL was a picture of tranquillity.

"Surprised the receptionist is still alive, honestly," Wilbur said, a valid point in itself. Phil had no doubt that if they were back in London the boss would've had the man on his knees by now.

"Heh," Techno breathed. "At least the boss is having fun."

"Fine!" Screeched the man, lip wobbling as he shot to his feet. Dream was laughing, wheezing comically, as the receptionist turned around and slid a star-shaped key over the wooden top of the desk. "Leave me alone!"

"Thank you," Eret beamed, grabbing the key with their slippy fingers. They looked behind themself, turning to see everyone staring at them, and winked, gesturing for them to follow them as they took a sharp right towards where the rooms began.

Tommy was hackling, breaths coming out in his high-pitched puff as he toppled after the boss. Tubbo spared the receptionist a wary glance before toddling after Tommy, who was already halfway across the room, in the footsteps of Eret - who'd already disappeared down a corridor.

Wil and Techno went after them, Phil loitering for a moment to ensure the boys hadn't left anything by the railings. He stepped forward and pried the wheezing Dream off the desk, leaving the receptionist red-faced and slouched in his chair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Uh," Tubbo bumbled, fidgeting. "We forgot something back at the resort."_
> 
> _"Really now?" Eret asked, lips pursing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHAHHAHAHA GET READY FOR IT

Eret had booked out a family room - an entire _section_ of the fifth floor.

There were five Queen-size bedrooms, each with a large balcony with a stunning view over the whitesand beach; two bathrooms, one with a large white bath and the other with the biggest shower Tubbo had ever seen; a gigantic marble kitchen with a big double-doored fridge that spat ice into cups if you asked; a sizeable lounge room with a two piece leather corner sofa, a chenille armchair and a glass topped coffee table sitting under the gaze of a big flatscreen tv perched on the wall.

The fifth floor was called The Level. Apparently it was held best quality rooms of the whole resort and probably cost a lot. Eret had dropped a few brochures on the kitchen island which detailed the activities and events on and around Varadero.

Not only was the beach open twenty-four/seven, there were also spas and fancy restaurants exclusive to The Level personnel. At the tip of Varadero was a Nature Reserve called Reserva Ecológica Varahicacos which not only had trails but also an ancient burial cave! Near the resort was also a park with gardens and a pond, called Parque Josone, that Tubbo really wanted to visit.

Phil mentioned about wanting to go down to the golf course about half an hour's coach ride from the Mélias. Technoblade had peered at the map on the back of the folding six-part brochure and agreed (well, Tubbo thought he did. It had sounded like an assenting grunt).

"We can say we're going to the beach and then go explore the town and shit," Tommy planned, explaining his pseudo-jailbreak in hushed whispers that night.

The two boys had ended up sharing a room, two large double beds sitting in an expanse of space where a sliding panelled wardrobe sat at the far end of the room and the flimsy curtains waved in the soft ocean breeze that curled in through the open balcony doors. A potted catus sat on the flimsy wooden chair on the balcony, something which had spurred a rant from Tommy that had lasted a good five minutes. The entire contents of said rant consisted of how the plural of 'cactus' was 'cacti' and _"isn't that fucking weird?"_

On a separate note, Tommy had spent far longer talking about a hushed excursion into town.

Cuba was warm, and possibly the coolest place he'd ever been (not counting Eret's inner city skyscraper), and Tubbo wanted to explore too. But Eret's words of this wonderful place being dangerous scared him. He didn't want to get in trouble and make Eret disappointed. He didn't want to find out if Eret carried out punishments like Mr Galling or if they did so like Mrs Galling. (Both were horrible and hurt very much.)

"C'mon, Tubbo," Tommy had goaded, the moon glittering down into his eyes. Tubbo looked at him and seen a chance, his blue eyes a glowing beacon in the dark. "Have an adventure with me."

He took it. "Okay."

Tommy's grin was worth it, he assured himself. He couldn't afford to lose his only friend.

Morning came with the squawks of gulls circling the coast and the lullaby of waves crashing. Tubbo opened his eyes to a room filled with light, a soft white comforter surrounding him. The sun sparkled off the glass balcony doors, lighting them up in a glistening mirage of the pellucid ocean waters across the way.

He lay in bed for a moment, content to lie in a haze. Nothing needed done - no floor scrubbed, no stairs hoovered - and so he was calm. Tubbo was in Cuba, had slept in Cuba and woken in the exact same place.

Excitement thrummed within him, making him all tingly. He couldn't wait to see the beach, couldn't wait to feel the sand under his feet and run into the ocean. He'd splash about, excited to maybe glimpse some jellyfish (but hopefully no sharks!). Then, whenever they got the chance, him and Tommy would explore.

Tubbo dozed like that for a few minutes, bathed by warmth and at peace in a soft bed. The pillows were plush, the fluffy blue throw by his feet tickling his soles. It was idyllic. A life he dreamt of having was being dangled before him and his imagination loved it. His chest felt full, heartbeat pulsing happily in his ears.

In the bed behind him, Tommy shuffled about, muttering something. Suddenly awake, Tubbo pulled his hands free of the comforter and rubbed at his eyes, yawning as he sat up. He looked over to his friend and decided to let him sleep a little longer as he dropped out of his bed and tiptoed over to his bag.

It sat on a wicker chair, the ratty old schoolbag looking misplaced against the modern and clean bedroom. The wooden floor was a degree warmer than what he'd expected barefoot. It seemed Cuba's warmth was contagious, affecting everything.

Smiling, he pulled out a pair of shorts that were among the better looking variety and plucked a short sleeved t-shirt. There wasn't a mirror in the room but that didn't matter. He pulled on his clothes, satisfied with only wearing socks for the time being.

Unexpectedly, the bathroom laid claim to a full-body mirror (he'd forgotten it had one). There, Tubbo looked at himself - white shirt, brown cargo shorts, blue trainer socks - and set his little travel bag on the sink counter. He'd brought with him a small travel-size deodorant, his sole toothbrush and a spare toothpaste tube, alongside his hairbrush and a pack of emergency tissues.

He brushed his teeth, washed his face and id what he needed to and by the time he'd put his travel bag back into his backpack Tommy was up and slowly rolling out of bed. His friend blinked at him as he made his slow descent towards the floor, blankets dragging as he pulled them down with him, half his body already out of bed. Privately, Tubbo thought Tommy looked a bit like a floppy fish.

"Morning, Tommy," he smiled. His blond-haired friend finally plopped to the floor and rolled laboriously to his knees.

"Good morning, my good friend," Tommy grinned right back, chuckling as he propped himself up and finally stood. He brushed down his striped pjyamas and beelined for the door, hurriedly gesturing for Tubbo to join him.

They tumbled into the kitchen, Tubbo lingering as Tommy burst into the seat beside Eret at the island.

The room was larger than the kitchens he was used to. Black marble lined the counter and island tops, the sleek lines being broken only by the stark white sink and the surface-tap cooker. A bold silver doored fridge hulked in the far left corner, the island sitting on a rectangular box of shelves, fully stocked with wine bottles.

Phil was at the cooker, frying up something and Dream was leaning on the counter beside the cooker, the two men quietly chatting. Technoblade, all intimidating pink hair and terror-inducing eyebrow scar, stepped into the room through the connecting door to the lounge. Wilbur was nowhere to be found as Tommy loudly demanded food.

"Hullo," Technoblade nodded to him. Surprised at being addressed, Tubbo offered a wavering smile.

"Hello, Technoblade," he said in return, standing awkwardly in the doorway as the taller man stepped past him to grab a charger lying on the countertop.

"Did you sleep well, sweetheart?" Eret asked.

It took him a moment to realise they were talking to him.

"Oh," he said a little loudly. No one seemed to mind. "Yes, thank you. And you?"

"Brilliantly," they laughed, but their smile was heavy and they twirled a sparkling glass filled with wine in their hand. Tubbo looked at their eyes and found something he didn't want to see in adult so he looked away.

"You want a fry, Tubbo?" Phil spoke up. "I'm doing eggs, sausages and toast."

"Some fry that is," Tommy scoffed, jabbing a straw into a juice box he'd pilfered from a plastic packaging sitting at the far-end of the island.

"You can cook if you want, Tommy," Phil decreed.

"Oh god, no," Dream bemoaned. "I don't want food poisoning if it's avoidable, Phil."

"Big words for someone who advocated coming to _Cuba,"_ Wilbur said, slinking in from the corridor. He brushed past Tubbo, offering him a wink. He was wearing his beanie despite the early morning heat.

Tubbo smiled back.

"Come sit, sweetheart," Eret called, waving to the seat beside them as Wilbur and Dream started sniping barbs at each other. Tubbo hesitated before looking at their reasuring smile and giving in.

"So what's the plan for today?" Phil asked, looking expectantly to Eret as the room settled around the island to eat breakfast. Tubbo looked up from his toast and sausage sandwich Phil had made for him and noticed everyone was looking to Eret.

"We're going on a roadtrip tomorrow," they said, fingers drilling a tune against their glass. "So today we can linger around the beach and whatnot. You said yesterday you wanted to go golfing, Phil?"

"Yeah, thought it would be something different."

"Each to their own," Eret shrugged easily.

"I'd like to go as well," Dream announced.

"Me too," Technoblade declared, squaring off against Dream like it was some sort of competition.

They hummed. "Alright, and you Wilbur?"

Said man looked up from his blueberries and shrugged. "Guess I'll go too."

Dream looked tense suddenly, a shadow passing over his face. "You didn't want to go golfing."

Tubbo startled, eyes darting up to register the smirk in Eret's eyes as they took a long swig from their wine.

"Not entirely," they admitted, gaze meeting Tubbo's. "What does Tommy and Tubbo want to do?"

Tommy perked up, grinning. "We want to go to the beach."

"Great!" Eret clapped. "That's that settled, then. We'll go down to the beach and you lot can go up to your golf fields."

Dream twitched.

"Tubbo wants to go up to the Nature Reserve, too," Tommy piped up.

Eret's eyes bored into him. "Do you?"

"Yeah," Tubbo managed to squeak out.

"Then we'll go up there after dinner as a group and get a tour," they decided, reaching over and plucking a blueberry from Wilbur's bowl. "Get changed after you're finished breakfast and we'll pack for the day trips. Shall we meet for lunch?"

"Bit stressful on us," Phil said. "The back and forth journey for us will be an hour. It could take a few hours to play round the whole course. We can take pack lunches."

"Alright," Eret nodded. "The boys and I will eat here or at a café. Everyone happy?"

Everyone nodded or murmured along in assent.

"Remember to take bottles of water," Dream added. "It's nearly twenty-five degrees out there and you'll get sunstroke quicker than you can blink."

The beach was nice, Tommy had to admit, even if he wasn't fawning over it like Tubbo was. White sands, translucent blue waters that seemed to lap up the shores and merge with the sand with a gentle swaying tide. It was picturesque. And the heat was near the thirties.

That meant the beach was bustling. The resort must've been filled with families, for now in the light of day, one as well weathered as today, they seemed to pour out from the cracks like woodlice. Toddlers waddled around, a mass sandcastle competition occuring between them. Young couples, people in their twenties, paraded around, men eyeing women in ridiculously small swimsuits. There were even a few older people out, an older family huddled around some old guy that looked near ninety and was stuck in a wheelchair.

Tommy didn't know the pros and cons of having a wheelchair down on the beach but he doubted they'd be getting all the sand out of the wheels as soon as they wanted.

Eventually, they were two hours in and Tommy was restless. Tubbo appeared happy to personify a toddler for the day and partook in a few too many sandcastle building operations as they loitered around.

It was easier than he'd thought it would've been to get away from Eret. Of course, the fact literally everyone else had went golfing helped out a lot because it meant there was no Dream or Technoblade with their hawk eyes nearby. All he and Tubbo had needed to do was wait for Eret to get reasonably settled whilst building a sandcastle. Once that was done and Tubbo had his fill of the sand under his feet and splashing through the water like a hundred other people, the plan fired up a notch.

Eret had mucked about with them for about fourty minutes before the wine flush had really kicked in and they'd decided a suntan was better than sitting duck. The lounger they'd claimed had a large umbrella over it, Eret flopping down in their barely knee-long shorts and tank top.

The point was, about one hour thirty minutes in, Eret had stopped glancing over to them. Tubbo had noticed it first, then Tommy had been informed and they'd began sporadically glancing up. Not once had Eret shifted and Tommy was quite willing to bet they'd fallen asleep.

They'd lingered about a little longer, making sure they weren't going to be caught out. But then Tommy's phone clock hit 11 AM and he decided it was now or never.

"Operation Exploration is a go," Tommy whispered giddily, not at all feeling just a little guilty in leaving Eret on a sunlounger whilst he and Tubbo crept away.

Operation Exploration was simple, in theory. Step one - play about for long enough for Eret to lose interest. (The fact they were slightly wine tipsy helped greatly.) Step two - sneak off without alerting anyone. (A certain lack of any other supervision also greatly aided this aspect.)

They were in the middle of step two, midway up the stone steps that led down to the beach when a voice chirped up from behind them.

"Something the matter, boys?"

Tommy whirled, Tubbo following a second later to find Eret a few steps behind them. They were smirking (a bad, bad sign, he knew) but not looking all too angry, which possibly meant this was going in the boys' favour.

"Uh," Tubbo bumbled, fidgeting. Tommy wasn't looking directly at him, instead monitoring him through his peripheral view, but the second he seen the stilted glances Tubbo shot around himself he knew they were busted for sure. "We forgot something back at the resort."

"Really now?" Eret asked, lips pursing. They looked happier than ever but all of a sudden Tommy wasn't so sure. Would they call Phil and demand he come back? Or perhaps worse, would they take them both back to the rooms and take their phones off them? Sneaking away, after all, was one of the three things Eret had stressed about not doing.

"Yep," Tommy agreed, knowing letting Tubbo go solo here wouldn't get them anywhere. "Plus, my phone needs charged. We were gonna come right back."

Eret watched both of them for a long moment. "Do you want to go through the town?" They asked.

Tommy glanced to Tubbo. Tubbo made a face.

"Okay," he said, trying to hide his excitement. At least this way Eret would buy him and Tubbo stuff. Although, he knew not to abuse their generosity it was still exciting to walk into a shop and know your friend would buy it for you if you so much as asked.

There was a common thread running through most of Tommy's interactions with Eret. It usually fell back to them making weird purchases. Phil said it was because they didn't know how to spend a humane amount of money. Techno disagreed, said it was because they didn't care.

He supposed he wouldn't care either about how much he spent if he was loaded like Eret was.

"Brilliant, come along," Eret exclaimed and started off in the direction of the town. They obviously knew about Tommy and Tubbo's ruse because not once did they glance back at the resort. "Anything you boys want?"

"Not really," Tommy said in the silence of Tubbo. They wandered into a bright section of town, buildings painted gaudy colours. Cafés, restaurants and gift shops littered the main street, a place Tommy briefly recognised as somewhere the first bus had driven through on the way to the resort.

Eret stepped into a pink painted storefront. Tommy pulled Tubbo along after, the two following them into a sugary smelling sweet store. The walls were covered in shelves, large glass jars sitting piled high with candies of all sorts. To Tommy the barrage of colours was akin to whiplash.

"Sweets?" Eret asked and continued on to buy them little snack bags of a mix of candies. There were a few american sweets mixed in - things like candy corn and reece's bits - but the rest was mainly weird tasting jelly beans. He liked the bags though, little paper things with white and washed out red stripes going along vertically. When squished, they crinkled nicely.

"Can we go in here?" Tubbo questioned, looking at the open door of an ornament shop. Eret nodded encouragingly and Tommy's arm was nearly pulled off by Tubbo in his haste.

The blue shopfront was nothing like the inside. The walls were a deep rich red, the dark wood floor creaking ominously underneath their shoes. It all looked out of place, the decor older than the glimpses Tommy had gotten of the other shops' interiors, darker too. He saw some old oil lamps sitting perched on the walls, unlit.

It was more of an antique shop. Old, ornate furniture sat around, gathering dust. There was a jagged looking chair, the back of which was a deep rich brown lacquered wood which arched up like a throne. Tommy paused at it as Tubbo meandered off.

"Look at these!" Tubbo cooed, drawing his attention up from his internal debate if the chair would be able to take his weight if he sat on it. Tommy looked up to his friend to find him leaning over a table littered with little bits and bobs.

"They're cute," Eret smiled, having stepped over to peer over Tubbo's shoulder. Tommy abandoned his chair gazing and joined them, finding the objects Tubbo was getting excited over were a little plastic bag of bee pins.

Small, wooden carved, paint chipping, they looked old. Definitely older than Phil, at the least.

"Like bees?" A rugged old woman appeared, pulling out of the shadowed alcove where the till probably sat. Tommy glanced at her, taking in her unusually new looking flower-patterened dress and the fake smile pressed into her thick makeup. She had to be in her late sixties and she was in worse wear for it, skin beginning to droop under her eyes and chin. Usually Tommy wasn't so critical of strangers but there... there was something _odd_ about this old lady.

Neither Tubbo nor Eret seemed to notice.

"How much?" Eret asked, repeating the question in stilted spanish. " _¿Cuánto es?"_

"Four pieces," the lady noted, staring at them unblinking. Tubbo was unobservant of the woman, too busy looking at the little bees. "Four pesos each."

"Do you accept dollars?" Eret asked, pulling a twenty dollar bill out of their previously empty looking pocket. The old lady didn't even hesitate as she snatched up the money, nodding approvingly as she pulled at the note before deeming it legit. It disappeared off into a zipper bag at her hip.

"Good, good," she said, watching as Tubbo beamed and grabbed the bag of wooden bees. He slipped it into the strap-bag Eret had bought from the resort's gift shop for them all to put their water bottles in for transport.

"Want see more?" She croaked, broken english pulling Tubbo's head up. She looked behind her, towards a darker door that probably led into a backroom. "More bees."

Tubbo glanced up to Eret, who nodded softly. The old lady's smile looked a little sharper when Tommy refocused on her, gesturing for them all to follow as she plodded over to the door.

His gut twisted. Eret checked their phone, slipping the device out of their pocket to check the time before pushing it back into their shorts. Heart racing, suddenly on edge, Tommy looked to the woman and found her slowly pushing the door open.

Light shot into the darkened corner. Tubbo followed the woman out into a red bricked alley.

"Come, come," hastened the woman, turning to the right. Tubbo followed blindly, the large door blocking the entire right end of the alley with its sheer size. Eret stepped out, Tommy hot on their heels. The second his shoes hit the gritty pavement, the door swung shut.

Three men, hulking burly figures, a stark contrast against the chubby but frail old woman, emerged from the very end of the alleyway, a slimmer and younger woman appearing next to them. Eret tensed as Tubbo stopped in confusion. Tommy's heart was rattling his ribcage, his lungs screaming. He looked behind him as the sun flickered out in way for shadows and found three more men standing in the alley.

The old lady was handed a bulk of cash from one of the men. She nodded and stepped back, out of the way as one of the men - wearing a ratty off-white wifebeater and patched shorts, slimmer core-wise than most of the others but taller by a good few inches - splashed forwards through a puddle.

"Arkhos," he said, accent thick with something that wasn't spanish. "You are not wanted here."

"Xisuma," Eret spoke, tone a little higher than normal. Tommy wondered if they were scared. He sure as hell wasn't - _definitely not._ "How nice to see you here, and with your Hermits! It's been a while, hasn't it."

"No time for talking, I'm afraid," said the man. "The boss lady wants you."

"Well, we can certainly talk," Eret smiled, hands splayed out in a peaceful gesture. They were surrounded on all sides, a few of the men more grisly looking than the others.

"Oh, Eret," smirked this 'Xisuma' guy. "She doesn't need you. Cub."

For a moment, Tommy thought the guy had called Eret 'Cub', but then one of the meaner looking fuckers stepped forth, long Viking beard swaying with each step and he realised it had been a summons. From behind, two hands closed around his waist, locking his arms to his sides, and as Tommy kicked back and shouted, Cub lunged for Eret.

They whirled to meet the human mountain, switchblade out of their pocket as they ducked under one of the man's meaty fists. Tubbo was being held back by a man, held in a mirrored position to Tommy's that was loosened as a woman shoved a wet rag over his mouth. Tommy was still kicking, biting down on the hand that had covered his mouth as Tubbo slumped in the stranger's hold. He tried to scream but the hand pressed tighter, squishing his jaw together as greasy fingers dug into his cheeks.

A thump brought his flickering attention towards Eret. They'd been strongarmed against the wall and were valiantly fighting against a tight chokehold. They brought their knife down through the man's forearm, earning a gruntish roar that turned squeaky as Eret swung their foot up into his crotch.

Tommy had enough fight in him to attempt his own balls-kick but before he could even get far enough back the man holding him pulled him down. His knees cracked painfully off the ground, eliciting a choked gasp from him. The wet rag was suddenly over his mouth now, the man's hand gone as the woman's beady eyes stared dauntingly down at him as he tried not to breathe. It was probably chloroform.

"Hey!" Eret had kicked back and reclaimed their switchblade, Tommy seen. They jumped for him but was blocked by a new shadow. His eyelids grew heavy as he took an involuntary breath and he sagged in his aggressor's grip. The rag was pressed tighter to his mouth and nose. It burned.

Past the slowing drawl of movement, he could just about make out the blurry shape of a gun being pressed to Eret's head as another shape came up behind them and whacked them over the head. They toppled to the ground, caught by no one.

"We've got what we came for," said the voice of that Xisuma guy. "We'll dump them in Oleaga on the way over. Bring the kids."

His consciousness crashed down around him as Tommy lost the battle. Body falling lax, his eyes fell shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know how it is, cuba has been adapted and moulded to how i want it to be. Most things are legit but things like the hotel location and stuff are exaggerated :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She hadn't always been Elaina._
> 
> And, 
> 
> _"This isn't your fault so shut up."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// mentions of prostitution for 1st section, mentioned child abuse, kidnapping, violence, bruises,

She hadn't always been Elaina.

Once, she'd been a young girl living in America. Then, her parents went and got themselves killed in a car crash.

At age twelve, she'd been shuffled across countries by the foster system. She'd ended up with her closest next-of-kin: her cousin. Her cousin was a decent guy, hard-working when he wanted to be and overall not too big of a douche. It just so happened her dear ol' cuz lived out in Cuba.

She hadn't always been Elaina. First, she'd been meek and shy, an unsure girl with brown hair and a habit for flinching away from loud noises.

Her cousin had owned an appartment in Havana. It was dingy and crampt but for six more years it had been home. As soon as she'd turned eighteen, her cousin had went missing.

He'd owed the mafia money. Not just one mafia either, no - he owed the Venezuelans, the Puerto Ricans, the Colombians and the Europeans. She'd never been angrier than she had been the night his corpse showed up chained to City Hall.

She hadn't always been Elaina.

When she turned nineteen she had black dyed hair and deep red lipstick that she used to leave marks on the men who frequented the nightclubs. No longer did she live in appartment near inner Havana, now she lived in the back of a strippers club. Her cousin was dead, his income gone, and she lived off of the tips that found their way into her bra.

She was coy and could give Suzzie (the best pole dancer) a run for her money. She was desperate. Her nickname was Rose.

She didn't feel like one.

Twenty came and passed, unremarkable.

Twenty-one went much the same. She'd moved deeper into Havana, further into its filth and crime and had laid in the laps of a few mobsters one too many times for her to really care anymore.

Her names changed; one month she was Aileen, the next Olivia, then Caprice, Juniper, Krissy, Wess, Flower, Gwen.

She hadn't always been Elaina but she liked this one the most.

Elaina was brave, bold and quick. She could have a platoon of men raining hell on a warehouse with a single gesture. She had blonde hair and soft pink lips and black subtle mascara and little black eyeliner wings that were expertly drawn on. She was a mafia boss.

Doc took her in when he shouldn't have. The Germany-born man was soft in the heart; unused to the grime of Cuba's true streets, used to licking up to a boss who'd never once set foot on Cuba's god forsaken land, nevermind looked at it.

Steffen Mössner was in his fifties. The old man liked to play best boy for the British HQ. She was one of many lost souls the man picked up, but the difference between her and the others was that she adapted and stayed with the mafia.

They were the European mafia's subsect. Arkhos, they called themself. Mössner must've been in on the joke because every time he referred to the main base it was with such reverance that Elaina felt sick.

She wasn't the only one that felt like this. She could tell - seen it in the sneers that painted the faces of the men who stood behind the boss as he fawned, heard it in the whispers of rackeeters sharing drinks in their bar. She hadn't always been Elaina, she knew how to listen thanks to the other people she'd been.

But Elaina was the one that knew how to plot.

Arkhos was a rat-infested shit show that she didn't want to be part of. Her Cuban sect was all muddled up, ruleless aside from the sole _"no human trafficking"._ Which was bullshit because human trafficking was the easiest gig out there.

Mössner's iron grip from the first few years of his tenure was slipping and Elaina saw the weakness in his old bones.

So she staged a coup. She whispered around, got men on her side - the Hermits were a huge development to have in this area, no one was scarier than them - and by the end of a new moon she'd overthrown the heirarchy.

She was affectionately referred to as the boss lady now. Mössner was legally dead and she sat in a throne forged by the blood of people like her cousin.

But her dislike of the HQ had grown, evolving into a stone-cold hatred. The boss was unnecessary to her plans, rather it was the children she wanted.

She'd had inside men relaying information from the moment she'd taken over. Eret was the boss, Dream was second in command and the people that were worth something more than shit essentially summed up the Watson family.

It was a bit of a security issue to have most of a command held within a sole family, she thought. But if the shoe fit, it fit.

Not that she cared much. Made it easier for her plans, really.

The plan was to get rid of the British HQ and have the main base become Cuba. If that didn't work out, the leverage she'd use for the first plan would be used to break them off to allow them to form their own mafia.

Said leverage was the children. She figured, if the higher command was made up of family men and she took the kiddies away, then the possibilities were endless. So long as she had the kids, everything would work out.

So sure in her plans, she'd informed the Hermits of an allowance to do whatever they wanted with any extra captives. Didn't matter if they grabbed the boss himself (though apparently Eret went by they/them pronouns so did that mean she had to refer to the hindrance as _'the boss themself'_ in that context?).

End point was the truth that she didn't need the boss to takeover his (their?) empire. It was to be hers soon and she'd fight tooth and nail.

Plus, the Hermits were loyal. They needed a little present every now and then to exude their bloodlust on least they turn their backs on her. Not like she cared about what they did to Eret. Guy was dead news already.

"Ma'am," called Xisuma, the leader of the Hermits and by far the most strategic. He strode into her hotel room with a jaunty gait, a clear sign he'd been successful before he even spoke. "We've got your quarry."

"Good man," she grinned approvingly, taking full advantage of the man's mommy issues as she made him preen. Xisuma was a key part to her play, she needed him if she wanted to live. Because the truth of the matter was, people were more afraid of him than they were of her.

And if you couldn't beat them, you joined them.

"They're down in the drawing room," he said, and stood there.

"Did you have any problems in the process?" She asked, idly standing and enjoying how the man's gaze quickly darted away from her low-cut shorts and pale thighs.

"We encountered a brief struggle," reported the man, fiddling with the purple-tinted sunglasses he'd pulled from his pocket. "Eret was there but Cub, False and Ethos are dealing with them currently."

"I won't ask where," she joked. Everyone knew full well the Hermits used the Oleaga forests as their playdate destinations. "How are the kids after your drive?"

She'd been under the impression Eret had wanted a meeting with her. Why they'd picked Varadero for a temporary base instead of flying into their heart, San Cristóbal, was a point of contempt. The drive along the autopistas by car was minimum three hours, maximum four (five, with _really_ bad traffic).

The only thing she could think of was that Eret hadn't thought ahead of a planned holiday and thus had chosen Varadero. Oh well, that was their fault. Already, they'd underestimated her and paid the price.

"They're alright," informed Xisuma, walking a step behind her as he turned to follow after her as she pushed open her office's double oak doors. They were in Hotel Renaissance currently, her favourite place to play. The fact the entire three top floors were specially reserved for mafia ongoings made it a lot better than most places and the frequency of which rooms were soundproofed was ideal for her line of work. "Blond one was a bit dehydrated as False had to keep the chloroform on him longer than expected but we found juice cartons in the café."

"Have they eaten?" She asked, checking her pretty gold watch. "It's nearly 3 PM."

"No," Xisuma said. "We were waiting to see if that would be the route we're taking."

"Of course," she wasn't going to be held accountable for any starvation going on. "These kids are important. We can't have them dying."

"Yes, ma'am," the man agreed, phone out as he texted someone the orders. "False and the others are done. Would you like them to go out on patrol?"

"I'm no slave-driver," she laughed, all too aware of what False's ire could do to someone. She needed the Hermits on her side and it was clear as day the dogs in the group listened to the women. "Tell her they have the rest of the day off. You all can."

"Bdouble and Keralis are watching the kids," Xisuma stated.

"There's many men in this building," she soothed. "We'll send the downstairs security a message the boys aren't to leave and if they somehow get past us that's dealt with. Take some time off, Void. You deserve it."

The man practically warbled with pride. Elaina offered her sweetest smile and reveled in the click clack her heels made as she stepped down the stairs.

Keeping any captives on the second floor was a stragetic advantage. It meant not only did the possible escapees have to make their way through two whole floors of her best equipped mafia men but they also had to make their way past twenty other floors of mafia indebts and workers. Hotel Renaissance was a hard place to escape from when the staff knew they'd be slaughtered if anyone got free.

The drawing room was a large room, called such not because it resembled the living rooms they were now called but because it made the meeting room sound much more professional. Inside was a large oak table, cornered by six chairs that creaked with every ass on them and a lavish, square-shaped rug off to the side. Said rug was an old Indian Oriental rug and was blue and grey with fringed tassels.

She stepped into the drawing room after waving aside Bdouble and Keralis from the double doors. The two boys, one meek brunet and one scrappy looking blond, looked up at her arrival. They were sitting on the rug, shoes lined up at the side of the room, handcuffed togther.

Elaina smiled at them. The blond was the only one who kept looking at her, although now his gaze was more of a glare.

"What've you done with Eret, bitch-lady?" Shouted the blond. Tommy Innit. Adopted son of Phil Watson. 

Blinking at the child's sheer volume and abrasive tone, Elaina took her time in responding. She walked closer, noting how the brunet quivered and sunk behind Innit. Toby Smith. Boy was apparently Eret's new favourite.

She wondered how much they touched him. Kid looked afraid of her and she hadn't even been in the same vicinity as him for more than a minute. Elaina was disgusted; she hadn't known Eret was that type. If she'd known she would've given orders for a more painful demise.

"Dead," she said in striking english, relishing the astounded looks on the boys' faces. Innit's quickly changed to anger whilst Smith's crumbled into anguish. Huh, Eret had him trained well. That, or he was suffering from that Stockholm syndrome.

Nasty shit, she knew. She'd seen it in a few too many girls who were overly attached to their mafia boys. It never ended well in a cesspit like Cuba where there was less money for food and even less for anything else. Mental health was just one problem at the bottom of a large pile of shit. 

"They're not," declared Innit, bunching Smith's hand in his behind his back as if she couldn't see. She didn't know the kid's exact age but the way his voice broke was telling enough. "Eret's not dead. Fuck off!"

"Don't think I will, but thanks," she said lackadaisically, crossing the distance between her and the first dining table chair and pulling it out. She sat down, legs crossing, and stared down at the boys. "Now, you can be good boys and we'll take the cuffs off or you can keep shouting at me and we'll see how well you like the metal."

Innit fell silent, bristled like a hedgehog. Smith looked inquisitive, though his eyes still brimmed with tears.

"I am Elaina," she introduced, lips curling in her prettiest smile. "And I am the one in charge here."

"You're the _'boss lady'?"_ Innit scoffed, lip curling. "What the fuck do you want with us?"

"Such a naughty tongue," she said, standing. It didn't escape her notice how both boys shrunk back from her. Did Eret have to do with that as well? Damn bastard. "We could fix that, you know. I have a rather nice knife I could use. It's old but does the trick, handle's gold forged from a dead man's golden teeth." She grinned jovially. "And let's just say we didn't pull the teeth from his decayed skull, either."

Innit quailed, suddenly pale. Smith's breaths were shaking his entire body. Elaina figured she'd had her fun. She needed the boys alive or else Arkhos wouldn't kneel the way she wanted. 

"Oh well," she hummed, crouching before the two. They stared at her like obedient little dogs, the image broken only by the fear in their eyes and the lack of wagging tails. Unbidden, her hand reached out, curling around the dark bruises soon to form around Innit's mouth from where he'd been grabbed. She wondered who'd done it as he flinched back, hissing like the rabid little boy he was. The handcuffs clinked noisily, their hands trembling.

Elaina laughed, flicked the brat on the nose for all the trouble she'd went to in order to get the two to her in one piece. "Have fun, kids."

She rose to her full height and left the two children shaking on their rug. Bdouble and Keralis shut the door tight behind her. 

If Tommy was a bird, his wings would've been ruffled. As it was, Tubbo knew his friend was no bird, but his glower sure made him look like an angry hawk.

"Whuh- What do we do now?" He found the courage to ask about ten minutes after the woman had left, her sickly sweet perfume a menacing fog that trailed in her wake. The room stunk of her now, reminding Tubbo of the horror he'd felt when she'd pronounced Eret-

Tubbo took a deep breath that choked on the way in and turned into a grizzly cough. He was scared and the room was cold and the rug was thinner than even his mattress back at the Gallings'. He'd woken this morning in the best position he'd ever been - happy and carefree - and now he was stuck with Tommy in some weird room, scared and confused and Eret was _dead._

He'd only been told about the whole mafia thing less than a week ago. Eret had promised they'd protect him, had looked so happy to have him smile at them, and now here he was, afraid and Eret-less because of his own stupid decisions. 

A hand touched his shoulder. His nerves flared up and he flinched back, eyes squeezed shut. The darkness was better. It was better if he didn't see what was happening.

"Tubbo?" A voice whispered. He was being held to a chest. His left wrist burned, a stern weight wrapped around it. "You're okay, man. We're okay. We'll get out of this and we'll be fine. That bitch is lying. Eret's probably trying to get us out right now. No - _definitely._ They're gonna save us, Tubs, and we'll be happy and go to the beach and we'll get to the Nature Reserve and, and me and you, you and I- us- we! We'll explore the caves and Eret'll buy you more bee pins and we'll go to sleep in the resort. Everything will be fine and, the beach'll be warm, the water all shiny and, and- warm, and--"

For the first time since he'd known him, Tommy ran out of breath. He was crying too, Tubbo realised, curled up against his friend's chest as he was. He could feel the way Tommy's body shuddered, could nearly hear his pounding heart. His friend sniffed, sucked in a lungful and began spouting more promises that they both wanted to be true and Tubbo cried harder.

Hefty, painful sobs wracked him, left him feeling exhausted as tears painted his face anew. Never before had he felt this helpless. 

His left wrist was held in an iron handcuff's grasp, connected to Tommy's right wrist. Even if they could run, running connected would be difficult, hiding would be complicated. There were guards by the door, he'd seen them when the lady had came in - two burly men who looked meaner than the guy with the dirty white wifebeater who'd talked to Eret. They'd never get past those guys. Not in thirty years. 

Tubbo's chest hurt, his arms ached, his lungs shuddered with every breath. Lingering pains told him where bruises would begin to form from where the man who'd grabbed him had pressed too harshly. Tears painted burning tracks down his cheeks and he was sure Tommy was in a lot of pain himself, with his darkening cheeks and shaking hands. Even crushed to his friend's chest like an unwanted limpet he could see the scrapes on Tommy's knees, seen the swelling bruises on his legs.

They'd been kidnapped. It finally settled in. He'd run out of tears to cry and it seemed even Tommy's silent sobs had dried up.

He squeezed Tommy's bicep before moving back. Tommy stared at hin for a moment, gaze blank with the complexity of his emotions, but then he looked away, jaw tense. He let Tubbo shuffle back a few inches, both quiet in the hollow room.

Eret was dead because he'd wanted to go into that shop. Eret was dead because he'd been stupid enough to want something. Eret was dead and it was his fault.

"Shut up," Tommy whispered without heat.

He startled, looking back to his friend. "Huh?"

"I can practically hear you thinking. This isn't your fault so shut up."

Stunned into silence, he sat there. Part of him was numb, his chest feeling cold and rocky. He was standing in a tundra, the world spinning around him but not stopping no matter what he did. The wind slapped at his face and the snow pelted his coat. He felt lost despite the fact he was sitting still in a room with Tommy by his side.

Tubbo had never been in a situation like this. He didn't know what to do. It seemed, despite his hopes, Tommy didn't either.

"We'll be okay," he murmured, joining the fake promise crew. Solidarity was good, so long as he and Tommy stuck together they'd be fine.

Right?

_Yes,_ he thought, wiping the tears from his face. _We'll be fine together_.

The doors opened. Immediately, Tommy rocked in front of him, body a literal shield against the world.

"I got lunch," called a voice. There was a long moment where Tommy didn't budge so Tubbo didn't either but then his stomach rumbled loudly and Tommy clambered to his feet and helped him to his.

The delivery guy was more of a kid. At least, he didn't look any older than either of them. Tubbo watched him, taking note of his tan skin and dark eyes. His beanie was blue with a white stripe, his white t-shirt was nothing special with his ripped jeans.

"My name's Alex," greeted the guy, grinning at them both. The tray he'd set on the table held a plate of cut-up sandwiches, all either ham or cheese or chicken and mayo. There were four juice boxes around the sides, lined up neatly. "But my friends call me Quackity."

Tommy rasied an eyebrow but was otherwise silent as he grabbed one of the juice boxes and used his cuffed hand to jab the straw into it. They were the same orange flavours from earlier.

Tubbo smiled as Tommy handed him the juice, transferring his hold of it into his free right hand so that Tommy could use his right hand again to prepare himself a box. He appreciated how Tommy appeared to be trying his best not to tug too hard with the cuffs. 

Quackity seemed unnerved by their joint silence. He fidgeted, looking awkwardly back to the door. "Uhm, can I get you guys anything? Any boardgames or anything?"

"Could I get my phone back?" Tommy asked, surprisingly not as aggressive sounding as Tubbo had expected. "I need to make sure my dad doesn't think we're dead."

The guy, who definitely wasn't Cuban but sounded like he still spoke spanish, frowned. He looked pained. "I'm sorry, no can do, mis amigos. Boss lady has plans for you guys and she isn't gonna let you talk to anyone outside this building."

"Can you bring us the games then?" Tubbo chirped, sucking at his juice. Tonmy gave him a side glance before nodding along.

"Yeah, what sorta games you guys got, Big Q?"

"Big Q?" Echoed Quackity. He looked chuffed at the thought of the nickname. "Okay," he nodded excitedly, bouncing on his heels. "I'll be right back!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eret ded? Eret ded
> 
> ELAINA IS TWITCH STREAMER. SHE POG. GO FOLLOW. ELAINAEXE (background in this is for her character not irl)
> 
> Lowkey getting worried this won't be finished by chapter ten lmao


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we catch up with our aspiring golfers

"I can't even golf," Wilbur muttered as he trudged along after the group. His grumbling was pretty loud, enough so for Phil to hear it at the head of the pack as they went round the course, looking for the twenty-fifth hole.

"Why'd you come then?" Dream snickered, a soft whooshing signalling he was swinging his golf club around again. Phil swore, if the man broke it Dream would have to pay the costs out of his own pocket. (Although, Eret probably wouldn't care if they ended up paying from their cash.)

The sound Wil made meant he raised an unimpressed eyebrow under his beanie. Phil wondered if it was a good thing he could tell without looking. "Because it was you lot over Eret fawning over the kids."

"You knew what you were getting into. I mean, look at Techno. You don't see him complaining."

Technoblade was ignoring them all, peering down at the small map printed onto the golf course brochure. At the mention of his name, he pulled his gaze up, staring at Phil for a moment before disregarding the issue when he was smiled at.

"He willingly signed onto this," Wil complained, flapping about like a dying fly in Phil's peripheral. Man sure had a fair for the dramatics. "Not like me. You all pulled out your stares."

"The boss obviously wanted to be with the kids," Dream interjected. "Were you gonna disobey indirect orders?"

"No," Wilbur huffed. Phil glanced back to him and found he had his arms crossed, the beautiful scenic hills roiling behind him in a clear, pure juxtaposition to his irritation.

This golf course was probably one of the prettiest places he'd been. Scratch that, Cuba - if not for all its dirty underbelly - would've been top of his most charming destinations, if not for the fact he was more liable to get shot dead here than he was back in London. The green hills of the lush fields seemed to stretch for years out here on the furthest tip of Varadero. They were closest to the sea here, where gulls squawked overhead and circled above fry-munching tourists.

It was busier than he'd thought it would be. There were people from all over the world here, playing golf, some more seriously than others: Asians, Brazilians and more than a few Americans loitered around, marking scores and playing.

Techno changed direction suddenly and they followed, coming up to their missed twenty-fifth plot. There was another group waddling around it so they stalled on the sidelines in wait for them to finish up.

Phil leaned on his club and looked up at the sky. He'd never seen one sort blue; luscious white wisps threading through a cerulean, translucent backflow. A few white bellied gulls flew around, diving down past the tall hills. Never before had he seen grass so green as that which covered these fields. The scenery was so pure that the thirty-two red flags (an odd number compared to the usual eighteen holes on a course but Phil supposed it had been made longer for the tourists) placed sporadically across the course at the holes were easily seen. _Usually._

Somehow they'd lost the twenty-fifth flag and had wandered off in the wrong direction entirely. It probably had something to do with the fact they'd been forced to take a bathroom break for Dream, who'd suddenly realised he needed to go uregently about a two hours in. The course was designed to be travelled in two hours but it was so busy today that it was probably going to take three.

"Heh, these guys are bad," Techno commented, cracking open his soda with a hiss of the bottle. Phil glanced up to the sight and found two thirty year olds toddling after a stray golf ball, a third taking pot shots at the hole and missing each time despite the fact he was inches away from it.

"Somehow worse than Wilbur," Dream piped up.

"I resent that," said the man himself. "But I agree. They're worse than me by a longshot."

Phil watched almost in slow motion as the two scurrying after the stray golf ball caught up to it. The man reared up, club going past his head as he took a swing. With the force he hit the ball with, the crack ricocheted past a few moments before the ball itself. Techno lunged for Wil and floored them both seconds before a ball whizzed past where Wilbur's face would've been.

Thankfully the ground wasn't wet or else the two of them would've been slathered in mud. Although, that didn't make the impact for poor Wil any softer, who took the full brunt of Techno baring down on him with nothing more than a muffled hiss.

"Oh, fuck me," groaned Wilbur, getting to his feet with a bit of difficulty. Technoblade, on the other hand, was up like a bull, the metaphorical steam from his nose not so metaphorical anymore. The tourists, Finnish judging from the flag tied around one's neck like a cape, looked over to probably apologise and saw Technoblade stomping forwards.

The sole woman of the group squeaked something and the man at the hole swiveled his head up as if possessed. There was a lone moment where no one moved before the tourists hightailed it, screeching like demonic entities fleeing a body.

"You good, Wil?" Dream wheezed. "You took that tackle like a champ. No resistance at all."

"Shut the fuck up, green boy," his middle son snarked, seemingly recovered enough to start bitching again. "You'd eat dirt too, if Techno took a lunge like that at you!"

"Pssh, sure," agreed the masked man, sarcasm evident. Wilbur pouted, Techno turning in time to see his twin brush a few stems of grass off his shirt. Phil saw the moment the twins connected on that psychic level of theirs.

Technoblade rammed into Dream, american football style. The hooded man squealed like a girl and got a moment's airtime before bouncing off the dirt. His hood defied gravity and remained on, if slightly slanted forward, as Dream hacked on his laughter. Techno righted himself from his hunched position and smirked victoriously. Wilbur clapped in approval.

"Alright, kids, c'mon," Phil took charge, hauling Dream to his feet after the third time where his laughter destroyed his progress on standing. "Let's play golf before someone reports a wild bull on the course."

"You don't get bulls here, Phil." Wil chirped. "You're more likely to find them further north, up past Havana. And they certainly won't be wild. All animals here are domesticated, take the raccoons, for example. The Native Cubans domesticated them to the point of extinction."

"Where the fuck did you learn that?" Dream questioned, brushing the grass off himself. The pros of his green hoodie was that no one could see the grass stains quite as clearly as everyone could see Wil's on his blue polo shirt.

"I read," shrugged the man. He grabbed his abandoned club. "Let's finish this up. I'm hungry."

Half an hour later, they'd finished up at the course and had handed in their golf clubs and balls to reception. Phil was forced yet again to sample the bleak offerings the country had for public transport and the group found themselves bundled into the back of a mini-coach with six other people.

Dreary was one word to describe the little Ford coach. Although, perhaps drab was a better word. Wilbur, who obviously hadn't slept enough the night before due to jetlag, had collapsed onto Techno's shoulder and subsequently made the bull look a bit more puppy-like. Dream was flicking through Reddit, the very one who'd gotten Tommy into the app and with an addiction ten times worse to show for it.

Phil himself was able to sit back in the shitty seat, Techno to his right, separated by the aisle and nothing more. Dream chuckled at something as his phone buzzed, Phil opening his eyes to see him now ensconced in a rapid texting battle with George.

"Mélias Resort!" Called the driver after an almost painful forty minutes, the coach coming to a halt outside the building when Phil put his hand up. The guy would drive on otherwise and the walk back would be a lot more annoying than this coach ride.

"Speed up," he said to the others, already halfway down the aisle by the time Techno had shaken Wil awake. It took a few moments longer for them all to disembark, the driver leaving them with a scathing look for keeping him back.

"What time is it?" Wilbur yawned, stretching his arms out above his head. The sun was still out, shining down on them with a good few more hours light. From the positioning, it looked to be around noon.

Dream answered before Phil could check his watch. "1 PM."

"I'll call Eret and see if they want to come up and meet us or if we should go to them," Phil decided, pulling out his phone at an approving nod from the others. Dream stiffened suddenly, shoulders lifting as he widened his stance, but remained silent.

It took Phil a moment to get the password right, the screen brighter than a firework with how the sun glinted off it. He clicked on the phone app, finding Eret in his recent three.

The phone dialled.

And rung out.

Phil pressed it closer to his ear in disbelief. "This phone is currently out of service, please call again later or press one to leave a voicemail," came the tin voice.

He clicked back, his contacts reel popping up once more. Something had settled in his chest - a cold, unhappy feeling where pessimism lay and his hope dwindled.

Techno's gaze was intent, staring at the phone with something akin to thoughtfulness. Although, it was a tad too sharp to only be that. Phil was sure if he looked up from the unmoving contact profile on his screen he'd see a mix of not-so-kind emotions playing poker on Techno's façade. "Could their phone be off?"

"It said out of service," Dream said, proving how loud Phil had his call volume up for the entire group to have heard. "Cuba's a military zone. That means there's coverage nearly everywhere there's an outpost. The beach is definitely covered. If the phone was off, they have a straight-to-voicemail function that would've triggered."

"Room time," Wilbur announced, voice worried. Technoblade grunted an agreement and the group set off with renewed purpose. Phil lingered, wanting to protest and take a walk down to the beach to make sure Eret wasn't down there with the kids and their phone had just been drowned or something, but Dream shook his head.

 _Shit,_ he thought and picked up the pace, wishing he was as tall as his boys. Their longer legs gave them an unfair advantage, even if Wilbur was very nearly too tall for the door frames.

The lift was taken once again, another heart pounding moment made worse by Phil's fear of having lost contact with the boss. He dialled up Tommy as they speed-walked, cursing under his breath as his phone rang out as well. Tubbo had no phone; the Gallings not buying him one and the kid not accepting one Eret had tried to pawn off on him a few days before this very trip.

"Something's happened," Dream hissed, the lot of them stumbling into the rooms like a herd of clumsy elephants. Techno was on the door immediately, locking it and triple checking. He shook his head at Wilbur and the two of them set up a tripwire (one that would work exceptionally well due to the door opening outwards into the hall).

They piled up in the dining room, a room with a large window with wispy curtains covering half the glass wall. Dream pulled the curtains and Phil re-checked for anything that wasn't theirs. If their position was compromised they couldn't have others listening in - if they allowed such, they didn't deserve to be in this business.

Anything Phil didn't recognise was chucked in the oven and put on at the top temperature, left to bake on a tray.

Three audio recorders, two cameras, a locator bug. A worrying amount, to say the least. Dream stopped beside him for a moment and they both watched the tech burn on the iron pan.

"We need to hurry up," Dream whispered. Wilbur had set up the two laptops they'd brought between them in the dining room. "Wil's on the phone with George now. Help me with traps?"

"Certainly," he said and accepted the fishing wire Techno made a habit of bringing everywhere. By every entrance (five balcony doors, numerous windows small enough even to fit a child, every entry door that they wouldn't be using) was a firm wire connected to something that would hurt, be it a swinging fishing hook that could take an eye out or smoke grenades.

They used up over ten metres of the stuff and Dream's bag of grenades looked a little less full. Technoblade met them in the hallway, nodding as he was given back the wire.

"George is connected," he said, and brushed past them. Dream lengthened his strides, Phil following after, and burst into the dining room.

"God damn," their computer genius was complaining through an encrypted discord call. "Cuba's got that many blackout zones I can barely see it service-wise. Eret could be in Havana, for all I know."

"No luck then?" Phil spoke.

"Nothing at all," George huffed, breath puffing against his mic for a moment. Wilbur had hooked the laptops together, the screens shared so that they were seeing what George was doing.

The hacker had a map of Cuba pulled up, underground lines and service towers outlined with an array of colours. Phil knew there was a key to it all, or else the colour coding wouldn't exist, although he couldn't make head nor tails of it.

There was also the Cuban military's seal on the bottom of the page, meaning George was probably playing hookey with the law again. No surprise there, but Phil wanted one day where _nothing_ went wrong.

Things _always_ went wrong (if sometimes only minorly). Probably some combination of the Watson luck merged with Eret's dashing charisma that got them anything they wanted. Of course, it was the Watson weight pulling the mafia down, because a cloud followed Phil wherever he went.

His mother had cursed him for that, said it was his father's blood in him that had done them in. Dad had died when he was too young to remember and Mum had blamed him for the event until her death.

 _Her loss,_ Phil would think at night, laying in a bed paid for with blood money, a blood money house built up around him, kids sleeping in the room over who were fed on blood money and thrived on it. It was her fault she'd driven his father off in the dead of night, forced him to walk to the shops at night; a long, long walk where he'd been run over by a drunk driver.

(Sometimes he didn't know what _'her loss'_ meant. Sometimes it felt more like his own.)

"You guys found anything?" George asked, the screen moving and zooming in around their Resort, as if George could see them from a stale mapping document.

"Gut says we aren't going to find anything," admitted Dream, voice carrying over the spluttering on the other end of the call at his declaration. "These guys are good, they got in and planted multiple bugs all over the place. They aren't going to leave evidence behind, George."

"We talkin' army level?" Techno stepped in, swiftly closing the door to the hallway behind him. He approached the table, pulled out a chair with a shrill screech and sat on it.

"Possibly," Dream concurred.

"Stay tight," George said. "I'll keep this hush on my end and I'll scan through to see if there's anything I can pick up on going in and out. The tech you guys need to monitor inner ongoings should all be on the emergency flashdrive. Call me if you need anything else."

With that, the call ended. Dream clutched the wooden bar at the back of a chair so tightly it creaked in warning. Technoblade and Wilbur were making twinspeak gestures again. Phil felt his entire chest deflate as he dropped into one of the chairs.

 _We'll find them all,_ he reassured himself, fingers white with how hard they had bridged together. _Tommy, Tubbo and Eret will be fine. They'll show up._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: blood and violence, character injury, torture (semi descriptive?), imploed/ref mental health issues, implied/ref ptsd,
> 
> pls tell me if there are more you feel should be added

Eret had woken in a middling spirit where they were neither overjoyed nor enervated. The resort was nice, although they'd seen much nicer, and the bed was decent, but their head was not.

There was always something that spoiled their days, they'd mulled upon sitting up in bed, looking out their balcony doors to see the large orb-like moon staring at them. Whether it was an impending basement session that they weren't feeling up to or a nagging voice in the back of their head that sounded like Scot hissing for them to get down, there was always something.

This morning, it was the repeating _boom, boom, boom_ of the warehouse bomb going off, the wet crunch as Scot fell and never got up again. It was a song they'd heard many a time before - nothing new, yet still as painful as ever to listen to; a tune they couldn't pause to catch a breath.

(Their therapist tried to give them meds to make it quiet. Eret didn't like them much; they made them sleepy, and a tired mafia boss was a dead one.)

Eret had stood in front of a full-body mirror, the moon a harsh light to their right. Their face gazed at them, sad and hollow, and they stared right back, the ghost of a friend hovering over their left shoulder.

They hated days like these.

Because these were the days they were slower than usual, less resistant to the thought of violence that permeated every little thing in this life of theirs. It was when they were in this sombre mood that the most men died down in the basement and a few more people got hunted if they fucked up.

So they drowned the bleary hatred that had settled in their heart with a little wine, pushing past Dream's stare and Phil's concerned glances when the two emerged from bed between the reasonable hours of eight and nine AM.

Technoblade had offered them a smoothie when he found them sitting in the living room at three in the morning. They'd politely declined, the complimentary wine from the wine shelves too good to pass up.

"Did you even get any sleep?" The pink haired murderer had grunted, leaning over the back of the couch to peer down at them. Eret had side-eyed him, the tv buzzing in the far off background with the sounds of some Spanish soap - a show apparently full of kids smoking and uncaring parents.

"Yeah," they slurred in the present, suddenly aware of the surface under them being rough like velcro. It dug into the exposed skin of their arms, legs and face and left them itchy yet numb at the same time.

Eret's chest constricted. Peeling their eyes open, the sight of absolute nothing greeted them. A vent whooshed by their head, the space around them jolted and jumped with the crackle of a car's tyres driving over rocks. Loud spanish music roared ahead of them, hammering into their eardrums.

 _What,_ they wondered, aptly aware of the cable ties wrapped around their wrists and ankles. The darkness made it hard to see, but the stimulus all around them made it obvious.

They were in a car. To be specific, a car trunk (or boot, or whatever people called it nowadays). They were tied up in a trunk, head aching at the lack of light as the bleak memories of the Hermits getting the drop on them rushed back.

To the backdrop of their fear for Tommy and Tubbo making the world seem so much louder and bigger; everything was amplified in the dark and every hum and every voice speared a new shock of terror through their heart. There was the prevailing crackle of the car driving over the flakey surface of what could only be forest detritus. The engine roared, rumbling through their core, and the complete shawl-like tenebrosity of the enclosed trunk left them frozen, unsure if they were alone in the seemingly small space.

The roof pressed down on their shoulder, keeping them on their side. It was crampt and the heat was stifling. Low murmurs of conversation flitted to them, ringing in their ears. It was claustrophobic, the sincere smallness of the available space heightened by their harried breaths and thumping heart as they wriggled and their knees brushed the hard backing of the trunk.

An experimental tug at the cable ties had their wrists burning. Eret knew only one way to get out of cable ties, although with their wrists held so tightly they'd sooner break a finger than get out.

That left their ankles. If they got their feet free and managed to pop the trunk, they stood a higher chance of survival. Even if they couldn't turn around, with their legs free they could maybe catch the Hermits unawares.

(At least, they hoped it was the Hermits. Eret was doomed if they'd passed them along to another gang.)

Curling up as tight as possible, the hushed murmur in the back of their head fretted over how long they'd been unconscious. There wasn't time, they had no time to think about that, not when they were in the back of a car.

Trying to be as quiet as possible as the car jerked, thumping them into the walls of the small space, they reached down. And fell short.

Their fucking legs- never before had Eret been irritated at their legs for anything other than being overly long when it came to shopping. It was, after all, hard to find trousers that fit right. But now, now they thought maybe they should've paid more attention to the yoga classes Niki had mentioned she went to because they couldn't fucking reach their legs. All thanks to the weird position they'd been dumped into the trunk in.

 _God damn,_ they thought, inches away from snapping out the words. A quick bite on the tongue halted any sounds, but their shame burned their insides.

What a sad excuse for a mafia don. Fuck, they were dead here. They would die because they couldn't fucking contort themself so that their bound hands could reach their ankles without their knees being in the way. They couldn't even pry their legs apart to cut down the distance because the trunk was too small to even let them turn around or let their legs lift up.

Eret sucked in a breath. Their head felt full, ears plugged with invisible wool. Every gasp for stale hot air echoed in the constrain. The 'velcro' under them wasn't velcro, they knew, but the ruddy car mat sure felt like it, pressing into their skin with an unspoken wrath.

It was sweltering in the trunk. For a Brit who rarely travelled overseas, the normal warmth of Cuba was a deathtrap. Now, to be locked in a tiny box-like thing that was ten times the outdoors heat, was agonising - the temperature was feverish, insisting on soaking their clothes with a vehemence that would leave them soon dangerously dehydrated.

Suddenly, the trunk popped open. Eret startled, head twisting to squint at the source of light despite how their neck muscles twitched in protest. A shadow loomed, blocking out the force insistent on blinding them. Cub snarled down at them.

When had the car stopped?

"What should we do with them?" False twittered in english, standing off to the right of the open trunk as she waved a paper fan at herself. Its red pattern flickered in Eret's splotchy vision, the intense burst of light informing them that the darkness hadn't been the only source of their sore head. "Look at them, poor thing's concussed."

"Heh, serves them right. Need to show the twerp it's not good manners to bring a blade to a fist fight." Cub growled, his meaty arm reaching for them. Eret choked as the man grabbed the back of their tank top and hauled them out of the trunk effortlessly by the neck like a cat.

Held suspended, it became clear how uncoordinated their legs were. They felt like jelly, the numb appendages touching the ground but not bearing their weight. Cub was finding it hilarious, snorting like a pig.

For a second, stout black blotches took over their senses. Eret came to a few seconds later on the forest floor. The sky spun above them, the sun's light nearly completely blighted by the large, green leaved trees; trees that shouldn't be moving but pulsed and span in tandem with every laboured breath that rocked their lungs.

 _Concussions aren't usually this bad,_ they dimly mused. Their wrists burned as they accidentally tugged at the ties binding them. The Hermits present were muttering between themselves.

A slim figure appeared above them. Their hair fell around them in luscious waves, blonde locks dancing in the unfelt breeze. A snide feminine voice chirped, "How many fingers am I holding up, Eret?"

They strained to pull in a breath. There were phantom hands clutching at their neck, the creeping feeling of bugs skittering over them where their tank top had fluttered down unevenly to leave some of their back and abdomen exposed. Despite the heat, they shivered as they blinked up at the swaying fingers.

Their heart pounded in their chest, their own fingers twitching to its rhythm. False stood over them, holding up two- three- four fingers.

"Three," they decided eventually, after narrowing their eyes and trying to focus on her hand. To their own ears they sounded just a little slurred, maybe more drunk to a newcomer.

"Hm?" False asked. "Repeat that for me."

"Three," Eret said, saying the word slowly.

 _"Mierda,"_ hissed someone.

 _Why are they swearing,_ Eret pondered, hiccuping on a breath and left nearly in tears at the sharp pain in their head accentuated by the action. They groaned breathlessly, writhing where they lay on the dirty, crawly floor.

"Just had to go and whack them with the butt, didn't you, Etho?" False was complaining. "This forest is treacherous enough for us to be here. How are we meant to take them deeper without risking him finding us?"

"He won't," Etho assured. Eret hefted their head towards the direction of the voices but could only make out blurred figures. It looked like some shitty movie censorship gone wrong. "And they sure won't know where to go, look they can barely breathe. Cub, you've got more muscle than us two combined, you lift them and we'll hold the progression."

"Sure," Cub sighed. The blob that was the larger man stomped towards them, startling them as a hand curled around the back of their head. They were as limp as a rag doll as Cub pulled them sitting upright before hooking a hand around their waist and hauling them up onto his shoulder in a crude fireman's carry.

The sudden change in position sent their stomach turning. Being carried like this left them feeling open, Cub's fingers gripping at their waist to keep them in place leaving them tingling with an anxiety their brain couldn't properly articulate.

"Careful," False warned as she took a few steps away from them, the action blurrily picked up on their peripheral. "They look a bit pale."

"What do you expect?" Cub scoffed. "They're British."

"No, I mean-" her blonde haired blob reentered their peripheral. Eret could barely lift their head to look over to her, so they didn't bother. "Nevermind."

"Where we goin'?" They drawled, limp arms rocking in front of them. The leafy forest ground swam away under them as their moving perch stomped forwards. Cub's shoulder dug into their stomach and their head hurt a little more at how it just swayed with every step and was being held at a bad angle, but otherwise the sudden climb in height was quite amusing.

"Somewhere special," False said, laughing. It wasn't too pretty a sound, but Eret was too much of a gentleman to tell her that. Instead, they let their eyes slip shut and tried to quell their surprise nausea with calm breaths.

There was a distant, soft hope that the Hermits wouldn't kill them. Xisuma had said they only needed the boys, though Eret was the boss. If the Hermits were getting greedy now and disobeying Elaina's orders then so be it. But if this was planned...

They lost their train of thought, mind spinning helplessly. 

Eret worried. They worried for Tommy and Tubbo's wellbeing. They worried for the others, Phil and co had went golfing - what if something had happened to them? They worried they'd die here in this forest with no one other than these three to hear their screams.

Was five years of hard work being pushed down the drain? Eret wasn't ready. They had so much still to do: people to gut, kids to smother with their fortune, jobs to create, politicians to bribe, pain to reap and promises to sow. They didn't want to—

Cub's muscles rolled, the only minute warning before Eret was dropped onto the leaf-covered forest floor. They went with a thud, lungs robbed of their air. From the sudden density of the trees that swirled around them and the roots and leaves under their back, the group had abandoned the car in somewhat of a clearing and had walked deeper into the forest.

"Hey," a boot found their right side, pain shooting along their torso as their ribs groaned. Eret's eyes shot open, the present suddenly cemeting itself in a new light. Who knew forests could be so dark? "Wakey wakey, big guy."

"I want first dibs," Cub growled, his heavy footsteps stopping by their other side. Eret blinked him into focus, pleased that the trees seemed to stop swirling now that they were remaining perfectly still. False appeared by their head, staring down at them with a smirk.

"By all means, Cub," Etho snickered - the one who'd kicked them in the side. His mousey hair flickered with the light that seeped through the canopy, stray flecks of sunlight refracting into his eyes and brightening them up.

"Hmph," the heavyweight intoned. Their switchblade glinted in his hand, dwarfed by his knuckles and made to look like a child's toy.

Eret realised what was happening.

"You need to learn manners," the man said and suddenly their blade was lodged inch deep into their arm.

When they blinked into reality, it was hard to breathe. The humidity had settled as a thick cloud over them, clogging their lungs whilst their overall oxygen intake was hindered by their aching ribs. At worst their ribs were fractured, although Eret found the optimism to acknowledge the fact they were still alive so nothing had pierced their lungs just yet. The only other good thing to note was the fact their wrists and ankles were free of the cable ties. 

Otherwise, their body was a painting; a sprawling cesspit of agony.

Cub had taken explicit joy in carving words into the softer underside of their forearms. The deep but thin scratches were simply one ache amongst a mulititude. Words in both Spanish and English decorated them now, not one a pleasant sight. They'd bled an awful lot from them, their once pale tank top now stained a dark reddish brown, arms and skin smeared red. 

Etho, when given the switchblade, had focused on their neck area. He'd scritched the blade over their collarbone and had happily asked Cub to apply a little colour to their neck. Cub had choked them and held them down whilst False took her time gouging lines into their legs.

Possibly the worst of it all was the fact they were doing this for fun. Eret could take being stabbed by an unstable lunatic if they were prone to violence, but they could not willingly process a torture session with no questions to be asked.

Afraid and hurting, they fell back into old coping mechanisms. The Hermits chittered and joked above them and they remained silent, near deathly still as they accepted the punishment. At one point, False tapped their cheek and upon the sheer lack of a reaction Eret couldn't bring themself to give, the Hermits seemed to slowly lose interest.

Everything hurt. Their hand cramped when they tried to lift it to push themself up and when they'd finally got upright, their hip tensed and let a shocking burst of agony topple them back into the dirt. There were bruised ribs, multiple gashes all over, what could possibly be a sprained wrist from the amount of swelling and a concussion that suddenly didn't seem that bad when compared to the rest of them.

The sun seemed as high as ever. Eret didn't know the time, could feel their phone a deadweight in their pocket. It was probably broken from the kicking they'd endured, likely left with them because the Hermits knew they were going to die out in a forest.

(They didn't want to die out here. Not alone; not when they'd always seen Dream clutching their bloodied hand in those nightmares where they did, guns rattling around them both.)

Exhausted and weary and not wanting to bleed out in some fucking god-forsaken _forest in Cuba,_ they forced themself to sit up once more. Nerves lit up as if on fire as they awkwardly rolled to their feet. It was an awful time trying to get their legs under them without agitating the stinging cuts on them too much, although their dud wrist proved to be even more of a hassle.

When they finally stood, they gasped as if they'd ran a marathon. In all truths, they sure felt like they had - burdened by constricted lungs, a pounding heart and an aching head.

They needed shelter. And water. Out in the near eighty percent humidity and over thirty degrees celcius, Eret would sooner collapse of dehydration or sunstroke than hypothermia. Although, with how their legs quivered on standing, even while they leaned heavily on a tree for support, they were probably going to drop much sooner than expected from neither of those.

Perhaps their most worrisome issue was the fact they couldn't properly assess the damage. With numb fingers and blurry sight, Eret could barely feel the bark under their palm nor see the trees in front of them. For all they knew, they could be dying from blood loss (scratch that, they probably _were)_ whilst mulling a broken bone that was covered up by adrenaline.

Not that Eret felt like they had adrenaline to run on. They were closer to merely slumping down into this tree's root cradle and staying there. Who knows - maybe it would be nice to die out in nature. Peaceful. Calm.

Except, no birds chirped in this forest. The wind was the only predator they could hear, the rest all monotone splotches on a stretched canvas. Either something (most likely the concussion) had fucked up their sensory perception or the forest was devoid of animal life (also possible although improbable).

Bile rose in their throat, unrestrained. Swallowing hurriedly did nothing for them as they were forced to pitch forward and cough up goop. Eret groaned, shivering as the sound made their head worse. Stooped over double and leaning on the tree as they were wasn't getting them anywhere, they realised. 

_Okay,_ they chanted mentally. _You can do this, Eret. C'mon._

A few tries later they were stabilised, standing of their own accord and trying to quell their sudden furious blinking tic to allow them a better view of the trees around them. If they could backtrack and trace the Hermits' footsteps then maybe they could do something about it. 

But out here, in some forest there was no signal, no backup and no second chances. They'd been left to bleed out on the floor but they weren't going down that easily.

They thought of Dream, strong willed and stubborn; pictured Technoblade, strong and brazen; saw Phil, short but proud; discerned the shadow of Tommy, bright and energetic and finally, they imagined Tubbo, the boy standing before them, gesturing off into the wild thick bushes and ferns of the forest.

 _Alright,_ they huffed, deciding a walk would be better to search for anything survival-wise that they may need. Half of themself they couldn't even feel, their feet dragged like a zombie's and their body just wanted to stop and sit down.

They continued on, weaving through thick forestry, stomping forth until something made a small _snik_ sound.

A harsh, sharp _crack_ ran through the undergrowth. Eret lost their lung capacity as they pulled their head down, frozen as if in a horror movie.

A bear trap had closed around their right leg. Large, serrated, red rusted jaws of a giant _bear trap_ had chomped down on their leg. Bone peaked through, the blood had already began to spread, the spring on the side of the contraption coiled tight. 

No longer did their right leg look like a leg, now it was more like a large bundle of twigs all jutting out in different directions. The trap, large and old and so obviously _human-sized,_ had been layered under a platoon of leaves and they - they'd stepped onto its pressure plate, set it off. 

Their heart thundered in their ears. Their leg was _searing, hot, burning_ , they couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move–

Eret blinked at it, only partially registering the sharp, blistering agony of a leg snapped in two, and screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, not sorry xx
> 
> I am sorry for how long it took me to write this tho lmao, im so lazy


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw/ mild gore (?), after effects of torture - injury, blood, etc, violence, broken bone, unintentional misgendering, :)

The forest hummed. It was quiet. Quieter than usual, actually.

Not that he minded. In fact, Ranboo quite liked it when things were quiet. There was this really annoying woodpecker that liked to hammer away in the trees close to the Reserve a few miles down, and it usually began work at the bright hour of seven AM. Thankfully, today must be its day off.

Though, things never went well when the forest was this quiet. Ranboo was used to the 'not quite quiet' thustle of leaves rustling and little rodents running through the undergrowth, and the flap of birds taking flight. But today— today's silence was something that was eerie in that there were no birds soaring, nor any rats gnawing on bark. The trees creaked and rumbled, as always, and that was all.

It had the old man on edge. Ranboo had woken up, very nearly stepped on Jeffery the cat's tail as he climbed out of bed and had walled downstairs to find Doc staring out the kitchen window.

The window was small and kinda really dirty, but it was the old man's favourite vantage point. Personally, Ranboo disliked the kitchen in general, as that was where most of the water was held in their pilfered plastic containers. Being laddened with aquagenic pruritus, a skin condition where water burned like holy water to a demon, Ranboo overall had made it a point to avoid H2O and all its receptacles.

"Careful, boy," Doc had grunted when he'd grabbed a banana and skulked over to the door (which was technically the back door, but it was the one they used the most). "Radio says a storm's rolling in from the West. Could be raining by ten tonight."

"No worries. I won't be out that long," he'd chimed back and thrown the banana peel into the compost box on his way forward.

Living in the middle of Cuba's largest wild forest wasn't something Ranboo had ever guessed he'd be doing when he was seventeen, nevermind being stuck with an old grouch who'd been booted from the mafia and kicked into exile. Doc always groaned things never went how anyone expected, usually when referring to his past experiences.

 _True,_ Ranboo supposed. He'd never expected his Uncle to kidnap him and sell him off to the Colombian mafia for a quick buck. They'd done something to him, maybe kicked him around or something, but after those guys got a hold of him his memory had never been the same. Ranboo was only half sure it had been his Uncle to sell him.

Anyways, the Colombians had sold him off too and he'd ended up in Cuba. Some guy had bundled him in a house with a bunch of other kids, Ranboo remembered, and one by one they'd been threatened with a gun to their heads and told to behave. He'd escaped that night, dragged out the door into the gardens by a lanky guy who looked creepier than he had any right to. Told to get down on his knees in the darkest unsupervised corner of the low fenced garden, Ranboo had punched the guy in the crown jewels, got a lucky swing in at his jaw and ran.

It was around there his memory blurred. Doc had pieced together that he was missing a few months, because the snow Ranboo remembered seeing when he first entered Cuba had been long gone by the time he'd stumbled into Doc.

And stumbled into Doc he had. It had been summer, or something, and all Ranboo could recall of that day was being so hungry. He'd tried to pickpocket Doc, seeing a wrinkled fifty year old in an old market and labelling him as easy pickings. His 'easy pickings' had turned into the European mafia's boss for its Cuban subset and he'd somehow ended up being brought home by the guy.

Not in a weird way— nah, Doc was pretty cool. Sure, he mostly called Ranboo _"boy"_ but he'd given Ranboo a few prime months of luxury before the Cuban guys had pulled a coup and they'd both ended up shucked into a shitty forest and told to die.

Instead, Doc had grunted they'd build a house. Ranboo had been slightly shell-shocked by the sudden events when he'd agreed but by the time he'd blinked back to life, there was a large wooden cabin hunkered down in the middle of the forest and it was his new home.

Sometimes the guys from the main base ventured in, trying to smoke them out and finally get rid of them but Doc's bear traps and trip wires had scared them stiff. Nowadays, nobody bothered them, too afraid of crossing the trees with paint splattered on them and walking to their deaths.

In the present, he stepped over a twig that would've cracked horribly. If the forest was silent, it was best he played the part. Peace disturbed was no longer peace and Ranboo disliked conflict.

The humidity in Cuba always made his skin itch. Sometimes he thought if Cuba wasn't so humid he'd have a better time out in the heat, and sometimes the humidity did drop, and Ranboo had fun. But then, the storms rolled in and messed everything up for a few days.

When storms hit Cuba, everything went down. There had been a really big one about a month before their exile and it had shut the shops for nearly three weeks, the beaches littered with scrap and rubbish. It was partially thanks to said storm that they'd been able to amass a cabin so quickly, tonnes of materials lying around and not to be missed.

It showed in the cabin. The walls weren't just wood; big sheets of metal and plastic and huge slabs of stone appeared randomly, arcing along the interior. The makeshift kitchen table was literally an assortment of logs Doc had chopped down, the cabinets and 'refridgerator' were chunks of stone Ranboo had found once on an exploration and were placed at the lowest point in the house to keep things cool. As for the traps, the wire lines were old fishing wire and stuff they couldn't fashion into clothing and the 'bear traps' were a cruel product of Doc's creative streak mixed with metal scraps and a few springs.

They'd been living out in the forest for a good few months now, scraping by with a makeshift vegetable garden and an array of stolen goods. Doc was legally dead, so they had no income, and round these parts if you had no ID you had no job. They were hours out from anywhere important, anyway, so unless waking up at five for a nine am job was sustainable suddenly, with no car or transport system, it wasn't happening.

Not to mention Ranboo's _"I'm allergic to water"_ skin condition chose the worst times to be a very real thing. There had been a storm about a month back that had resulted in the roof springing a leak. The entire second floor had flooded by a few inches and Ranboo hadn't been able to help fix the roof, left to sit awkwardly in the kitchen by the fire as Doc hammered new planks into place through the night.

The surrounding towns were small but had enough shops and internalized economies that they could handle Ranboo stealing from them. Usually, on Mondays and Fridays providing it wasn't too wet, he went out and lurked around the markets, pickpocketing and making small talk whilst bagging any necessities that couldn't be made or found in the scrap piles left over from storms.

There was a burble of hushed murmurs from up ahead. Ranboo perked up, checking his Dora the Explorer (premium quality, limited edition, kids) wrist watch, and spotted an old dark oak to climb up.

Voices carried no more than a mile, in Oleaga. That meant the people were relatively nearby and within the painted warning signs. Ranboo perched on a secure branch and let his gaze flick over the green canopy. He couldn't see anyone, which was a good indicator that they weren't too close.

That was good, he knew. He didn't really want to have to listen to Doc shooting anyone who came too close. Except, most didn't get past the traps.

Ranboo had heard more people scream their throats raw after being caught in a bear trap than he'd heard people say _"please"._ It was possibly one of the best traps set out there, noticeable only to those with very keen eyes and they who set them. Bears not even residing in Cuba increased the unexpectedness of them, too.

People didn't know to look out for bear traps in a country that had no bears, after all.

The voices never grew past murmurs, a few pained groans rising up every now and then. It was upsetting how often the mafias used these forests to torture people. Although, Ranboo understood the pros; the Oleaga forest spanned all the way from Havana to Artemisa, nearly half of Cuba.

Down by San Cristóbal, the tail end of the forest was revamped for a Nature Reserve with a few trails and a gift shop for tourists. Apparently that was an entry point for the mafia, too, men driving trucks down in and dumping bodies on the edge of their territories. Although, the Reserve was far enough away that Doc had told him not to worry about it.

In a forest so big that some towns were entirely shrowded within it, it made sense why the mafias that inhabitited Cuba would use it to their advantage.

Fiddling with a dried out leaf, he kicked his legs up and let the wind ruffle his Hawaiian shirt. He dozed a little, escaping away into a little imaginary world where he had access to pre-cleaned water and electricity. Doc was there, setting up solar panels like the ones he'd talked about experimenting making the other day, the stress lines wiped from his brow.

The grumble of a car engine starting up startled him from his calm and he opejed his eyes under his shades. Subconsciously, he turned his head towards the sound. From the direction, it seemed whoever it was were leaving.

 _Good,_ he mulled and began the climb down his tree. He was peckish.

The table wobbled, the glued together logs remaining sturdy as the base debated whether or not it wanted to stay firm. Doc rose his hands in preparation, not wanting the wood to fall on him but ready if it did.

He was in a precarious position, currently: on his back, under the table that was too heavy for him to lift up and turn upside-down alone. It had taken a slant, curving as drying wood did. When he'd built it, he thought he'd accounted properly for the bending but he'd looked at it this morning and had found the wood had bent more than usual and settled in something close to a u-shape.

So here he was, under the table, making sure the thing was stable where the thicker log that was the leg met the centre of the top. He'd shaved a bit off the top, cutting it down enough that the bend wasn't noticeable in that the bowl he'd placed atop it hadn't slid down the slope like the first one had.

It quivered once before going still. Hands up, Doc lightly poked the underside of the actual tabletop and was gruntled as it remained in place. Satisfied, he wormed out from under the table - the only place he'd been able to remain whilst working on the main leg - and dusted himself off.

With a click, the door opened, Doc whirling to see Ranboo pop his head back in. The boy had the gall to grin at him.

"Ello," he chirped, swinging into the kitchen as if he owned the world. Doc brushed his hands off a final time and watched the boy grab and peel another banana.

"You're back soon," he noted gruffly. "Something happen?"

Doc wouldn't put it past the kid to have stumbled into a puddle or something; the boy was surprisingly clumsy for someone with a medical aversion to water. Before he'd first run into the boy, he'd never thought he'd meet anyone with a skin related condition or allergy towards water, seeing how rare they were, and yet he'd been proven wrong nonetheless.

"Naw," the boy said, chomping down the fruit quicker than Doc could take a few steps over to the counter by the window. He grabbed his bottle of water, uncapping and taking a sip of it as he watched Ranboo's gaze flick off to the side.

"People lurking again?"

Hesitating for a brief second, Ranboo eventually nodded. "Yeah," his lips were pressed firmly together, a hand on his hip. "It's horrible that they feel the need to beat someone up for no reason at all."

"People fall into routines," Doc tried to explain, mulling over how many death orders he'd given out; the sheer number of lives he'd quashed underboot. "And in places like this it's easy to look the other way if you're getting paid for it. Corruption is a real thing that can be taken advantage of in many ways."

"I know," Ranboo pouted, staring at the rickety wooden planked shelf on the opposite side of the room. His clenched jaw said everything he couldn't. "Doesn't mean I have to like it, though."

Doc hummed. "Suppose not, no."

 _Although it helps,_ he thought, something deep inside his chest burning for the boy who could never go to school again. Ranboo would never be able to set foot outside a forest lest he be shot down. Doc set his water bottle down on one shelf of many, jarring a little wooden cup sitting beside it.

"Lets play cubilete," he decided, motioning for the boy to sit. There was no time to dwell on how disorienting it was to wake up to a creaking wood ceiling above him instead of the carved planes of Hotel Renaissance; no time to think about how it hurt his chest to walk down rickety stairs into a kitchen that was more a stone encapsulated fire and a series of handmade and crooked stick shelves; no time to think about how he'd been blind to Elaina's greed and had thus doomed them both to a fate worse than isolation. There was no time to think and yet too much.

He grabbed the wooden cup, shaking the dice in it. The _chink clink_ soothed him, a sound he'd grown used to as he sat with the Hermits, his family, and played rounds with the winner getting an extra dessert, the loser destined to an extra hour of patrol. The memories were bittersweet, a reminder of a time he'd been equal with his family, before they'd orchestrated a coup with a girl he thought could've been a daughter if she accepted the papers.

"Okay," Ranboo dropped down into the stool he'd carved out of a log yesterday. He picked at the skij of his fingers, watching the grain of the wood roll through the table. "Order of power is A-K-Q-J-G-N, right?"

"You know it."

Ranboo rolled another two Blacks, leaving his three Jacks an unfinished five. He surveyed his lot and sighed, head thumping callously against the (thankfully) splinter-free table. "Are you cheating? You have to be, no way you got three Queens."

"It's not that difficult to understand," Doc smirked, eyes slipping to the growing dusk. He'd have to make them something to eat soon. "Cubilete is all about luck. Loser had to go out to the garden and pick the tomatoes for dinner."

"Unfair! That's so unfair," wailed the boy, watching as Doc rolled two Queens on his first try, completing his set of five and winning the round. "I'm not picking the tomatoes!"

"Three Cundagas," he declared. "I win. Go pick the tomatoes, boy."

"Fine, but only because I'm such a good sport."

Doc couldn't help but snort.

"Hey," began Ranboo, filled with the energy of defiance that was all play. "I am a good sport!"

An agonised scream ripped through the forest, shaking Doc's nerves more than it shook the air. Ranboo went pale, face a page of panic.

"That was–" the boy began, only to cut himself off.

Staring out the dirt-covered window as if it would tell him the secret to his grandmother's old pan bake recipe, Doc stood from his chair. "Sounded like it was from the North."

"Around the area I heard the people," Ranboo disclosed. Doc looked to the kid and saw guilt lining his face. "Do you think they've been there this whole time? It's been hours."

"We better hurry then," he interrupted, turning to the cupboard behind him to grab his shotgun from its confines. If anyone had been out there, bleeding out for hours, they were probably close to death but he didn't want to risk anything. "It's probably Trap 44."

"A bear trap," Ranboo mourned, hesitant but willing to follow after him as he ventured into the thicket.

The forest was a well-traversed place now, for him. He'd mastered the art of making his crunching steps quieter against the crusted leaf ground and had adapted his preference for a casual Remington 870 into a profitable use. Anyone who wasn't snagged by a trap was shot down, simple as that.

Trees bent and wavered, the wind howled like that of a wolf pack, the echo of a scream darting along on the breeze. Ranboo treaded along behind him, Doc leading the way with his Remington 870, fully loaded and ready to shoot.

Trap 44 was a bear trap, not usually successful due to how deep into Oleaga it was. Most of the gangs tended to stick to the rims of the forest with only Arkhos venturing in past the first marker line. Doc reckoned it was because they thought they owned the place and thought they could lord that over him and push him out.

They shouldn't have dumped him in a forest if they wanted it back. They shouldn't be so cocky.

A dash of red caught his eye as he brushed past the foilage.

His stomach sunk as he stopped a few metres away from the body. Poor thing had stepped on the trap and his leg had shattered like a twig. Bone peeked out from the trapped limb, the guy's body strewn out like a limp fish yet still curled around the leg. Blood, dried and fresh, surrounded him, coating his skin. Guy was more red than anything.

It was a gruesome sight. Not many would survive being in such a state out here. Maybe that was why Doc was so surprised when he saw the guy's chest heave in a breath.

"He's alive," whispered Ranboo from behind him, voice weak.

"Somehow," he said, quickly surveying the area before passing the gun off to the kid. Ranboo immediately took up a sentry stance, gun held at the ready as Doc lowered himself to his knees to check the prone figure over.

His arms were scratched to hell, slurs dug into deep gouges all along the soft of his inner arm. The same went for the guy's bloodied legs, what little skin was visible aside from the flesh-protruding breakage covered in cruel words. Doc skimmed them, lips tight as he tried to evaluate the pros of saving this man's life. The two of them had little to live off of as it was — they didn't need a no-good moocher who had nothing to give.

Checking the chest and coming up with the bumpy skin of broken ribs and a soft wince from the unconscious man, he moved upwards. Guy's collarbone was scraped raw, throat already beginning to bruise heavily in a dark chokehold. He swiped the hair out of the man's face to check for eye movement, aware of a possible concussion with how he was unconscious.

Doc paused. Suddenly, his chest felt ten times lighter. Something warm and grizzled burned within his lungs and brought a smile to his face.

"Holy shit," he said, awed and afraid and yet far too happy to be alive. "Holy fucking shit."

"What? What is it?"

"Y'know the big boss I talked about?" He said, barely even pausing to let the kid guess. "This is them. This is Eret."

There was a stunned silence. Doc couldn't believe his eyes.

"What do we do?" Ranboo finally asked.

"Help me get open this bear trap," he demanded, already ripping up his shirt to tourinquet Eret's right leg to staunch the bleeding. They were pale and sweaty from blood loss. It was very likely they would die soon if he didn't do something.

"So this is Eret?" The kid pried, leveraging the trap out to free their leg as gently as possible. Eret quivered and whimpered a little as their splintered leg was freed but remained out of it. Doc hushed them anyway with a hand through their hair and quickly surveyed their leg to go about the best way of extraction from the forest floor to their cabin. "What does this mean?"

"Means if the boss is here then their dogs will follow," he said, deciding there was nothing he could do with his limited supplies to further support them. He rolled them upright and clutched them in a fireman's carry, noticing how Ranboo walked a little ahead of him after wincing at the state of Eret's dangling leg. Sticks wouldn't help splint it; honestly, Doc wasn't sure he could fix it out here.

He'd try, though. He'd damn sure try.

"Their dogs?" Ranboo squeaked, gun held tightly in his shaking hands. "What?"

"Dream, Technoblade," he listed. "The Watsons, maybe. The away team, hopefully. Means we're gonna have the good kind of company soon. They'll help us if we help them."

The half-stone, half-wood walls of the cabin came into view. Doc hadn't expected to be panting by carrying dead weight a few hundred metres but apparently he wasn't as fit as he'd thought.

"So, we're only helping them because it gets us something?"

"Yep," he agreed. "They're our way out. We stop them from dying and that's a life debt right there."

He knew Ranboo wouldn't like it. Kid had too many fucking morals; too soft a tongue, too kind a mind. But it didn't matter, because Doc was the adult and he was required to do everything in his power to make sure his kid got to live life to the fullest. With any luck, Eret would live and the entirety of Arkhos would have to lick up to him for saving the boss.

When they got to the cabin, the boy opened the door. Doc grunted and hefted his prize all the way upstairs, dumping them in his bed.

"Boil some water!" He hollered to the boy, getting to work in ripping off Eret's clothes to learn the full extent of their injuries. They'd been dripping blood the whole time he'd carried them, blood drawling down the back of his shirt and staining it. Doc shucked it as he stripped Eret down to their boxer shorts, deciding they didn't need to come off with how little skin they were hiding.

Eret was a punching bag personified, every inch of skin either bruised, bloodied or stained with dirt of the forest floor. They were lucky they weren't dead, nearly every inch a deep cut or gouge.

Doc was overjoyed. Before him was a new chance, a hope dangled before him that he'd never even dreamed of. This was _the_ opportunity and he was _not_ going to waste it.

In the set of drawers in his room was a bag. In the bag was almost everything medically inclined the two of them had found in the near six months they'd been exiled. Finding an old abandoned military base a few miles off had greatly added to the stockpile, with bandages, thread and string, a small medkit and tweezers only being small things in the pile of resourses they'd repurposed. Half the cabin was made out of stone; stone they'd taken from the old base's crumbling walls and interior.

By the time Ranboo appeared with a large bowl of boiled water, Doc had mapped out most of Eret's injuries and had ripped spare cloth into rags.

"Help me clean them down," he ordered, dunking a rag and quickly swiping it over their skin. Eret's breathing hitched but that was the only response, Ranboo grabbing another rag and aiding in the effort silently. Kid was in a huff because he didn't agree with Doc and his manipluation but he'd understand soon, when he was comfortable beside a pool with maids to cook for him and people to chase after him.

Now with his patient significantly less bloody and dirty, Doc surveyed the sight. He whistled and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves from the medkit.

"Your blood type is O," he asserted.

"Uh, yeah?" Ranboo echoed. When Doc had first taken him in a blood test had been one of the first things he'd done — something that made him extremely glad in this situation.

"How do you feel about being a blood donor?" He asked, already pulling out the field transfusion kit from the bundle of gear. It was a miracle find out here and he was immensely glad he'd grabbed it. "O is the universal donor and as we don't know their type it would be foolish to use mine in case we aren't compatible."

Ranboo looked a smidge like a deer in the headlights. "W- Will it affect me, like disease wise?"

He couldn't help but snort. "No, all you need to do is sit beside them and make sure the tube I attach is connected to your arm. You up for it?"

"Sure," the kid sighed, stepping over to get the needle jabbed into him. Doc was very careful as he rubbed at Eret's own arm and jabbed the line into it. "Any tips?" He asked as he sat down on the stool that always sat beside the bed.

"If you feel lightheaded, unwell or uncomfortable tell me immediately. Absolutely _no_ moving the tube and keep your arm a little higher than theirs for a good gradient. Anything else I leave up to you."

Doc waited for Ranboo to nod before turning towards Eret. The primary injury was evidently the shattered bone, although it had stopped bleeding for the moment which was promising.

Deciding to hold off on anything that could result in further blood loss and put Ranboo in danger too, he made use of the sterile wipes in the medkit and wiped down the larger cuts. A few of them needed stiching whilst a few would close up on their own. Their collarbones were a fucking nightmare, the skin peeled and scraped off. Doc looked at them and decided a cautious but deep clean of the wounds was enough for a moment. If they needed bandages to keep them clean he could do it.

Quickly, he calculated how long the wraps were. He could spare it, he supposed, and although covering the wounds may not be the best course of action, covering them was better than leaving them bare for dust and dirt to infiltrate. 

Ranboo sat and watched as he tugged and pulled bandages around Eret's upperchest, being forced to peel them off the bed (which was nothing more than a shitty mattress with a loose sheet over it) to fully wrap them. Their ribs needed wrapped too but Doc would do that in a bit with an old shirt (not that they had many shirts to spare to begin with) once they woke up and could suitably breathe through their bruised throat to handle the pressure around their chest as well.

Eventually, he had nothing else to do. Doc rocked back for a moment, having taken Ranboo off the transfusion line a while ago. Eret looked better; less pale and not as clammy. The mishmash of old shirt bandages and stark canvas ones was an odd sight, making them look pale still. The only thing left was to do something about their leg.

He looked at it, knowing breaks like those meeded surgery, and looked back at his kit. If he did nothing they'd lose the leg — something no twenty-odd year old wanted — and he definitely had a scalpel and enough bandages left over.

Sighing, he grabbed the sterilized scalpel and pushed forth. He'd push the bones into place, is all. Better that they begin to settle in the correct place than set out of place, he reasoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ten days later it arrives & nearly 5k words, pog <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If you could cry real tears then, I'd have you cry them all for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it did not take me a month to write this. no. no ahah
> 
> whoops.
> 
> this was gonna be longer but tbh my Wilbur pov is just so dry I could've cried if I had to write more on it 
> 
> tw: mentioned and implied rape themes (skip first section before the gap if uncomfy w this), ptsd dreams and themes (Eret) alongside torture, 
> 
> in second bit: guns and cigarettes, kinda romanticised smoking sorry I got carried away,
> 
> overall: we got the angst and um yeah, stay safe, love yall x

"You embarrass me."

Eret shied away, chest aching as they choked on a whimper. "I'm sorry," they could barely say, throat clamping down on a too quiet voice.

"What was that?" Snarled the first voice, familiar American accent making their shaking hands so much worse. A hand fisted their hair, tugging their head up. Dream glared down at them, corrosive green eyes burning in the darkness of the room they'd woken in.

Eret could barely suck a breath in past the canvas around their ribs. Their arms were tight with bandages, their thighs a mirror. They couldn't feel their right leg, something which had left them in a heart hammering panic before Dream had began speaking.

They weren't sure if this was the real Dream. The man they knew had softer eyes when he looked at them and harboured a protective streak a mile wide (one that resulted in them being under constant watch that time they'd sprained their ankle). The Dream they shook under now was not theirs.

"I'm sorry!" They wailed, desperate and quivering and far too afraid. 

"You'd better be," smirked the man, their switchblade in his hand suddenly. Eret flinched back at the sight of it, the words on their arms and thighs blistering with heat. Their throat went dry, closing in on the scream that tried to burst free as Dream tore the bandages off their arms and recarved the words into their skin.

Trembling, with tears painting their cheeks, Eret squirmed under the blade. Their mouth opened but no words came forth, leaving their teeth to slam down on their tongue to quieten their sobs.

Dream didn't once pause. Instead, he continued on to their thighs once their arms were numb. When he'd finished, he rocked back, straddling them to keep them still, and nodded. He was pleased and his sharp toothed maskless grin said it all.

Eret had lost the energy to both shake or sob. Frozen where they lay on a white sheeted mattress, they watched Dream stand, leering over them. The image was horrifically reminiscent of a time years ago – one where they'd been a chained puppy for a fat man.

Towering over them, Dream knew this. He knew this, and laughed anyway. He cackled like the man had, and when Eret whimpered, he threw the switchblade into a floorboard and hunkered back down, curling over them. Dream's face was inches from theirs, an old peppermint tobacco smell permeating the air.

"Hello, doll," said the man they'd tried so hard to forget. Dream was gone, and now a large stomach pressed against their ripped skin and smeared the red everywhere. They felt glued to the sheets, blood congealing to keep them in place as the man came down on them.

 _Not real, not real, not real,_ they chanted frantically. Yet they still screamed in agony when the man pushed his greasy fingers under their thighs to tug them closer, digging into the cuts Dream had made deeper than the originals. The man licked his lips before pressing them down into the mattress as he leant forwards and scraped his teeth over their neck.

"Please," they murmured, lips threatening to never part again. Speech was important, they needed to speak. Their heart thudded, shaking their bones when they could not. Past an aching head and a spinning gaze, the world beyond the hollow of their body seemed so twisted and dark.

The walls were molten lava, the floor dark wood. The sky was gone; pitch black and all consuming. All there was, was the man and Eret. It was a hell worse than any other.

"Please what?" Purred the man, his breathy laugh rumbling through them both. His veins bulged on the side of his neck, greasy skin slick and pulsing around the thrumming pulse point. His black beady eyes shone with glee.

"Stop," they begged, breaths now short wheezes. "S- stop, _please."_

"What's that, little doll?" Asked the man, voice loud and booming. It struck them with terror, flashing images of the man groaning loudly in hotel rooms to keep the other customers unaware of their weeping as he played with them. "You want to play?"

 _No,_ they wanted to say. Their lips were screwed shut, too fast breaths making their nose burn like their limbs. Eret had fallen numb, their entire body a cold sack to be moved and adjusted how others liked.

The man sneered down at them, his right hand slithered up to squeeze their hip.

"Alright, doll," said the man. "Daddy will play."

Wilbur stared at the laptop screen, the flickering blue code of the hard drive integrating itself consuming the entire screen. He swallowed the mucus at the back of his throat and took a choked breath, drumming his fingers on his leg as the code squirmed in a mirror image of his racing heartbeat.

Tommy was gone.

Tubbo was gone.

The boss was gone.

The three of them had been taken. Stolen. _Kidnapped._

Wilbur hated himself; hated how he'd agreed to go golfing, hated how he'd left them alone. Sure, Dream was probably thinking the same thing; Techno, too; Phil, as well; and little ol' Wil wasn't a fighter like the others, wasn't used to picking up a rifle and pointing it down someone's face, so why should he feel guilty that two kids were probably scared out of their minds right now?

It was because he couldn't do anything; couldn't keep people away because he hadn't the muscle to beat a man up, hadn't ever had the stomach to face a guy as his blood coated a baseball bat. But he could damn well try – even if he couldn't beat a guy up, he could wield a gun and even if he hadn't ever looked a dying man in the eyes, he could muster up the courage to do so. Just because he couldn't kill somebody didn't mean he was useless.

Somewhere, that aspiration had turned into the form of him sitting in the most uncomfortable, worst-looking faux-leather chair at the large dining room table. He sat and stared at a laptop he'd brought with him to play Geoguesser on, maybe to let Tommy play Minecraft on, and he let the hard drive upload onto it because his brother and the kid's best friend and their boss were missing. At the end of the day, he wanted nothing more than to find them and leave this damn country.

"Our best bet is to coordinate with our subsect," Phil said, pacing along the left side of the table. He'd ran his fingers through his hair enough to completely reconfigure it and it was now shaped like a fuzzy ball instead of its usual waves. His ponytail was suffering the most, long blond strands having escaped the hairtie's grasp to make him look less bedraggled and more mentally deranged.

Techno was rooting through their bags, the sum total of which had been dragged into the dining room. If Wilbur had been fully paying attention to his brother's task, he would've been shocked at the sheer quantity of guns they'd managed to smuggle in with only backpacks. As it was, he was much too focused on the code worming itself across the laptop screens to really look at his brother. If he had've, he would've noticed the nervous tick of Technoblade biting his lip and his narrowed, annoyed eyes.

"And if it's the subset that has them?" Dream argued, sitting opposite Wilbur and the laptops. He was the only one looking remotely calm, arms crossed as he leaned back in his partly wooden chair. The ashtray had been shifted from the kitchen for his cigarette, which rested on the bend of his finger.

It was a rare day that Dream didn't have his mask pulled up over his lower face, but now the man's mask was down, folded around his neck. Although, not that it mattered, seeing as his dark green hood was up, shadowing his face for all but his burning green eyes. Wilbur glimpsed his scalding gaze as it rolled around the room. Somehow Dream managed to walk around with such anger, yet he kept it under lid and still managed to point and aim before he unleashed it; not unlike Technoblade, yet the blond American held himself taller and more regally than nearly every other man Wilbur Soot had seen when enthralled in the throes of fury.

Wil worried how many cigarette packs they'd burn through until they found the kids and the boss. At this rate, they'd lose their best fighters to lung disease before anything else happened.

 _Too many things, not enough time,_ he thought illogically, startled at how overjoyed he felt when the laptop screens flickered to their usual startup black. The homepage flicked on for one, a dialogue of code taking up the one on the right as the one on the right automatically opened up a few illegal code packages.

Links unearthed themselves, revealing apps and mods built into a backup mainframe that was available solely for situations like these. Wilbur cracked his fingers out, wiggling them for a bit of feeling as he took to his favourite sharade of being a hacker.

Truth was, he was horrifically worse than George, or even Fundy, but seeing as neither men were on the trip, in Cuba, with them, he was left. And apparently, he was best suited for tech support right at this moment. Not that he was going to complain: he'd take a laptop over a semi automatic any day.

Let the manly men take the guns, he reckoned. Not that he wasn't manly, but eh.

"If the Cubans have the kids they'll be perched at a secure location," Techno piped up.

"Why would our own men kidnap the boss?" Phil scowled. "It makes no sense."

"People like individualism, Phil." Dream shrugged off, not seeming to care about the betrayal of one of their own divisions. The smoke of his cigarette wafted up, curling around the ceiling fan as it whirred up a breeze. Cuba was too fucking warm. "It wouldn't surprise me if they've taken them for leverage. In fact, I'd bet on it. Tech?"

"Ain't no bet if I agree," his brother grunted, checking the ammo clips and filling up empty ones from the box of bullets sitting on the table. Technoblade had lined up a good ten clips on the polished wood, with a good few more to go.

Dream clicked his tongue. "Damn. Well, my guess is the Cubans want to break off or something and have taken boss and the boys for negotiations."

"Tommy and Tubbo would be incentive," Phil sighed, suddenly sounding thirty years older. Wilbur let his fingers curl into the palms of his hands, all sorts of images invading his mind as he thought of his kid brother and his friend being held at gunpoint whilst the boss was threatened. Eret was capable of protecting themself, able to keep afloat in stressful situations so Wilbur wasn't as worried about them, not as he was for Tommy and Tubbo – two kids who didn't deserve to lose a limb for any mafia, no matter the situation.

"Mhmm. So it's likely the Cubans have taken them somewhere close-by, but not so close that we can walk downtown and raid them." Dream explained his theory. He blew a ring of smoke that seemed to linger in place for a moment before the fan swished it away. Wilbur was seeing the aesthetic appeal of smoking as Technoblade puffed out a loop of his own vapour. "We know about a few bases, thanks to Mössner."

It was here those green eyes centred on Wilbur. He looked back down to the ready and waiting laptop and pushed a hand through his hair.

"Guy was good at relaying," Phil recalled. "Shame he's dead."

"Bet that his death is part of this power shift." Techno offered up, apparently done with the banging of the table with his ammo stocking. He'd moved on to cleaning his favoured gun, some assault rifle – a Beretta Cx4 Storm, if Wilbur correctly recalled some late night ramblings.

The Arkhos connection pinged, files opening and a hotbar flashing red as he began typing. A simple search of Cuba had a multitude of folders appearing before him, everything that was on the network at his fingertips.

The files were easy to access and it took him barely a few seconds to load up everything they knew about their little Cuban subsect. It wasn't that much, the lesser majority of which being up to date within the past few months.

Which basically boiled down to them not knowing nearly anything at all.

"Last known location of our Cuban subset is a garden centre. Soroa Botanical Gardens in deepset Vinales, found on the cusp of the Oleaga forest." He reported, frisking through the data. Kneading at his lip, he skimmed the short list of the command tier and favoured routines and saw almost all of them hadn't been updated in three years. He complained as such.

"Eret liked Mössner," Dream sighed. "They were softer on him than they should've been."

"Still, I don't think they realised how little info we have on the sect," Wilbur said, having resorted to the Web to find out about the Gardens. A little forum online hidden past raving reviews and multi-star reports claimed to belong to locals, all of whom were complaining of the crime presence to some degree. The forum had been pretty active a year back, having started in 2015 and still up today. Except, the reports of crime and violence had stalled when the forum lost its fire.

The sect had evidently moved on.

He disclosed, "I don't think we'll find them at Soroa."

"We don't have anywhere else, no leads, nothing?" Phil sighed.

"No."

"Think we should try it anyway?" Dream flicked his ash into the tray. His crossed leg swung up and down in time with him offering Phil the cig packet.

Techno grunted. "The police can't be relied on, the army's unbribable and the country's a powder keg. I say we take the bait, swim upstream and see what we find."

"And if there's a shark waiting for us?" Murmured Dream.

"We've got enough ammo to take down a megalodon."

"Phil?"

"Alright," agreed the blond. "We'll raid them. How long will it take to drive there, Wil?"

"Uh, five hours."

Phil seemed to deflate further, Techno groaning as Dream made a low mumbled sound. Wilbur didn't like the odds either, angsty as he was. Every minute with the kids missing was another they could get hurt.

"We can rent an SUV out," his dad decided. "The guns will store, we can take provisions and we'll inform the hotel of a day trip that might run over. They won't take away our rooms if we don't return tonight."

"Affirmative," Dream echoed, hurtling himself to his feet as he drummed his fingers along the dining table's polished edge. "Let's do this. If we can storm the old base before this storm rolls in we'll be ahead of the game."

Sometimes, things never went the way they were expected to in life. Wilbur knew this. Wilbur – who had been kicked out onto the streets as a ten year old with his older brother for company, who'd struggled to keep afloat in the Foster system until Philza Watson came along, who would give his life to protect Tommy or Techno or Phil or even Tubbo – knew life could not be planned.

When one was part of the mafia, life wasn't to be held to boundaries nor was it to be constricted to red strings and deadlines. In the mafia, most things were life or death. A man could turn his head wrong, speak too oddly, too loud, and someone could take offense and that man would no longer have a head. That was how things were in this world, that was how the evolutionary theory of 'survival of the fittest' prevailed in the streets' advisory.

The way most scroungers looked at it was that if you fucked up and acted wrong, you got a bullet. Those people were labelled weak for dying, and those who lived were suddenly the strong. It was survival of the fittest, people claimed.

Wilbur didn't believe that those who died were the weak. Not always. Sometimes, yes. But not every case was as black and white, just like the world wasn't as monotone as the governments and men in charge wished. There was no retribution or karma for the wrong, nor were there gifts for the so-called right.

He'd seen good men die to heart attacks, to strokes, to cholesterol in the heart. He'd seen bad men die too, seen men who were neither trip on their laces and break their necks. Wilbur knew the world was not just two colours – there were many, one good man to him was not a good man to Techno. A drug dealer fed people who saw them as essential whilst others saw the dealer as vermin and something to be destroyed.

There was two sides to every story, much like a coin, if not a dice.

Take Eret, for example. At first glance, running a mafia was bad. It was dirty work, with horror and crime, prostitution and trafficking. Mafia meant crime, it meant death, it meant innocent people were tugged under the line of morality and pushed into lives of dirt and grime.

But despite how inherently bad a mafia was in general, Eret was not bad. They had the honest necessity of the mafia to keep their family safe. They'd formed Arkhos to keep people safe, to give people a home. They'd banned human trafficking and prostitution and made a great effort to help their own people.

Eret was a good guy who looked bad because of their actions. Inside, they were a soft little puppy who'd been kicked a few too many times and had learned to growl on the outside while they wept on the inside. At least, Technoblade had said that in confidence once. Truthfully, Wilbur hadn't ever seen it; just saw a mob boss pushing towards a rank higher up in the world, already a billionaire and barely twenty-five.

 _They're doing well for themself,_ he thought offhandedly, caught between wanting to doze off in the back seat or remain awake to keep an eye on his laptop.

Phil had rung up the reception desk and the lovely girl there had sorted them out a fashionable Land Rover Discovery at the hinting of a large tip. Collecting it had been easy and no more than a blink later Wilbur found himself hunched in the three seat liner, Dream to his left, Techno in passenger and Phil driving in front left. Cuba drove on the right hand side, unlike England's left, and it was odd to sit in a seemingly backwards car.

Soroa Gardens were a while away, and while Wilbur didn't normally get fidgety during longer car rides, the car was clammy from the storm that was rolling in. It was three PM and although the storm wasn't scheduled to hit until near ten, Wilbur was queasy.

Tommy didn't like storms. He jerked at the lightning and movie nights were mandatory to block out the thunder. Techno didn't mind them and Wilbur completely denied how he sometimes jumped at the first thunderclap. 

Quietly, looking out at the shitty tarmac road whizzing past, Wil wondered if Tubbo liked storms. Hopefully they were together –

The light of the laptop changed. Wilbur let his gaze flick down to it and found a tracking signal lit up in bright yellow. _Eret iphone,_ it said in big block capitals. 

He shouted. "The boss' phone just came online."

"Where?" Crowed Dream, already crawling on top of him to see the screens. Technoblade had turned around in the front, staring back at them as Dream manhandled the laptop out of Wilbur's lap. 

His thighs were left cold as Dream clicked around the bypasses, narrowing down the signal. "In the forest," he announced after a tense moment. "Satellite maps have nothing but trees." 

"A hit and run?" Phil voiced, knuckled white on the steering wheel. 

Techno grunted, "Or a stab and drop?" 

Wilbur gulped, palms sweating. 

"Drive faster," Dream said, pinging the satnav with the coords. Phil put the boot down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feed me, tell me how utterly horrific the Wilbur pov was, inform me how good the Eret ptsd dream was on a rating of one to carrot :)
> 
> carrot bestest boi


End file.
